Qazai didn’t mind talking about himself like this. It was clear, in fact, that he had talked about himself a great deal, if the seamlessness of his narrative was any clue. As episode moved easily into episode, Senechal, having no reason to interject, simply sat tapping at his BlackBerry, making notes or typing e-mails, unnaturally upright on his sofa, half an ear on his master, whose account of himself was at once self-effacing and egotistical. Behind every story of his father’s canniness or Timur’s brilliance lay Qazai’s influence: without his father or his staff or his son he would have been nothing, but though he never said as much he left the strong impression that they might have been a great deal less without him.
He had a tendency to bring his homeland into everything. Iran never faded from the story. After over thirty years its steep descent into terror was a fresh insult that he was still struggling to accept. He talked about Mehr again, and the horror of his death, about the rigged election, the spring protests and the shame he had felt when he had not been there to take part. Time and again, Webster had to bring him back to the subject of his own life.
In this he was not like other rich men Webster had met. His passions seemed more powerful than his drive to make money and he was almost reluctant to discuss his success. His mission, as he called it, would not be complete until Iran was free again and he could be said to have contributed to its release. But Webster noticed that for all these fine words he said little about what form that contribution might take.
In fact, there were too many fine words altogether. Qazai was not evasive, quite; his answers were full; his whole account of himself seemed to have substance, and was delivered with conviction bordering on intensity; everything he said had a certain grace. But Webster began to sense that this version of Qazai, complete in its way, was only one of several that he would never have the chance to meet. He imagined them lined up in a mirror-lined closet off the sumptuous Qazai bedroom, somewhere above: this one for memorial services, that for charming investors, another for convincing Ikertu that he was a good man. Webster wondered how many there were, and whether Qazai himself could now tell one from another.
He was expansive about his son. Timur was the really talented one, he insisted, and under his guidance the company would become something altogether more exciting. Sometimes he regretted his own triumphs because they would always obscure Timur’s true abilities, no matter how much he achieved. It was for this reason, among others, that he was stepping away. Now was the time, after his apprenticeship in Dubai, to give his son the space to work freely.
“How old are your children, Mr. Webster?” he said, his legs crossed, a glass of orange juice in his hand, wholly comfortable.
“They’re young. Five and three.”
“Ah, how I envy you that. There is no greater delight. Do you have a son?”
“A girl and a boy.”
“Then we are the same. Do you have ambitions for him?”
“No. I have no idea.” Nor for her, Webster thought.
Qazai raised his eyebrows the merest touch, in concern more than surprise. He gave a slight nod, as if to himself. “I wanted Timur to have nothing to do with money. To be a writer, or a politician. A historian. It is difficult to be a rich man sometimes, if you love your children. If you leave them everything, it makes them weak. If you leave them nothing, it makes them resentful. I have tried hard not to spoil them.” There was a plainness about the way he said this that was new.
“Perhaps every father has the same problem,” said Webster. “If it isn’t money it’s something else.”
Qazai thought. “You are right,” he said, “very right. But money makes it worse. A poor man can bequeath his love, pure and simple.”
“And his poverty.”
Qazai looked at Webster for a moment with apparent appreciation and then laughed. “Mr. Webster, you are wasted as an investigator. Tell me, is your father still alive?”
Webster didn’t want to tell this man about his family but he answered nevertheless. “Yes, he is.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s retired. He was a psychiatrist.”
“A good man?”
“A very good man.”
Qazai nodded, as if that was what he had expected to hear. “Does he approve of what you do?”
There seemed a pointedness in the way the question was asked, so slight that he wondered immediately whether he had imagined it. Qazai waited for him to respond.
“He’s not the sort to judge.”
“It can be hard to live up to a good father,” said Qazai.
“Better to have the opportunity.”
“Even when we fail.” Qazai held Webster’s eye for a second longer than was comfortable, his features firmly set. “As we must.”
He drained the last of his orange juice, and his face relaxed into a smile. “I will introduce you to Ava later. She is keen to meet you. I thought you might like to ask her some questions.”
Webster, thrown a little by this odd exchange, muttered that that would be his pleasure, though for the life of him he didn’t know what questions those would be.
“Now,” said Qazai, putting his glass down and clasping his hands together. “What else do you have for me?”
Webster smiled back, without warmth. “Some specifics, I’m afraid. The Sargon relief. Mr. Shokhor. Some questions about Mr. Mehr, if you don’t mind.”
Qazai’s face stiffened a little, but before he could respond a short, muted little cough announced that Senechal was still with them.
“Monsieur,” he said, his tone deferential but firm. “We must be in Canary Wharf by noon.”
Qazai glanced at his watch, a thin gold disc. “Surely not, Yves. We can be late.” He turned to Webster. “Yves does his best to keep me on track, as you see.”
Senechal shifted in his seat. “I must insist, monsieur.”
“Yves, sometimes you can be a little too lawyerly. Never mind.” He smiled a patronizing smile at Senechal, who didn’t return it. “If it can’t be helped.”
“This won’t take long,” said Webster, feeling annoyance and relief at once. One part of him was happy to leave right now; the other wanted very much not to have to come back.
“I’m so sorry. Early next week?”
“I’ll be in Dubai next week.”
“Dubai? You should see Timur.”
“Thank you. I’d like to.”
“I’ll have him make the arrangements. He’ll be delighted.” Qazai held out his hand for Webster to shake. “Thank you, Mr. Webster. I’m sorry to cut this short. Truly.” His smile was frank and full. “I’ll send Ava in. You may talk to her about anything you wish, but not the content of that report. If you wouldn’t mind.”
Webster had no idea what there was left to talk about, but little as he relished the prospect of wasting an hour talking to Qazai’s daughter about heaven knows what, he realized that he was caught, and could do nothing but agree. Qazai shook his hand warmly, smiled one more of his big, bold smiles, and walked away.
Halfway to the door Senechal put his hand on Qazai’s arm and whispered a few words that Webster couldn’t make out. Qazai stooped to hear him, nodded and turned. “Yves has had a splendid thought. You must come to Como. The week after next. The whole family will be there, and we’ll have time then. Bring your wife. My secretary will be in touch.” And with that he left, Senechal dutifully following.
Elsa with a house full of Qazais by the lake. Webster smiled.
• • •
HE KNEW A LITTLE about Ava Qazai—a paragraph or two from Dieter in one of his many memos, drawn almost wholly from the society pages of the newspapers and the gossip columns of magazines. All he could remember was that she was the younger of the two children, didn’t work in the family business and was of interest to journalists because she had found it difficult, despite much good work
in that general direction, to find a husband. There were various accounts, relayed by Dieter in too much detail, of parties attended and engagements broken, and Webster wondered blackly whether he would be required to find some room for them in his final report. The one detail he had taken in, because it had prompted a grim chuckle, was that she was invariably described as “the billionaire’s daughter, socialite and political activist, Ava Qazai.” He could only assume that Qazai wanted him to hear about all the good works that he funded.
Webster had put aside his notebook and was leafing through one of the books on the coffee table when she came in. He was prepared for her to be powerfully dressed, probably in black, and to treat him as women too accustomed to money tended to treat people like him, as staff. But from the start she didn’t conform to type. She wore black jeans, white tennis shoes and a gray silk blouse, and as he rose to shake her hand gave the impression not of superiority, exactly, but impatience.
“Mr. Webster. Ava Qazai. I feel like we’ve been told to play together.”
Webster returned the slightly testy smile. Her eyes, almost level with his, were black, underscored against her olive skin with a thin line of mascara and but for a slight scroll at the side completely round. They were serious, not wholly certain; Webster felt himself being examined, as if she were trying to determine what sort of creature he was.
“Like good children,” he wanted to say, but instead introduced himself, a little stiffly, and suddenly felt rather foolish. This wasn’t the spoiled princess of his imagination, and the realization made him wonder how she must see him and his own strange, trivial mission.
“I see you’ve been looked after,” she said, taking in the plates and cups on the table.
“Repeatedly.”
“My father likes this house to be a little corner of Tehran. My oasis, he calls it.”
“He has some beautiful things.”
“Too many. One can only look at so much.”
Webster simply smiled, resisting the temptation to agree.
“Please,” she said, gesturing for him to sit down and putting her phone and her purse on the table. She had inherited her father’s poise but not his self-consciousness about it, and when she sat as he had on the sofa opposite, dropping back elegantly and crossing her legs, she projected none of that air of carefully constructed ease. In other ways she was both like him and not like him—her nose was strong and straight, but finer, her skin the same healthy gold, her face rounder, her eyes somehow more honest.
She looked at her watch. “You wanted to ask me some questions?”
“Your father suggested we should talk.”
“I don’t have long.”
“To be honest, I’m not sure what he wanted us to talk about.”
Ava watched him closely for a moment, then shook her head and laughed drily.
“He likes to show me off. Does he realize you’re married?” She nodded in the direction of the ring on Webster’s hand.
Webster smiled. “I’m not sure he’d want the likes of me in the family.”
Ava leaned forward and took a piece of nougat from one of the plates on the table. “I don’t really understand what you are.”
“I’m an investigator. I find things out.”
“And what are you finding out for him?”
“Why his reputation is suffering.”
“My God.” She took a moment to chew. “We can’t have that. Someone’s been saying nasty things about him?”
“Is that rare?”
“He’s a paragon. Hadn’t you noticed?” She watched for Webster’s reaction but he kept his expression clear. “So, what, you find out and then tell everyone it’s all nonsense?”
“That’s about it, yes.” Webster wasn’t expecting to have to defend himself. His conversation with Qazai had been odd and fruitless, and this was becoming as rewarding. It was time to leave the Qazai house.
“Then you’re not an investigator. You’re a PR man.”
“Today, yes.” He shifted toward the edge of the sofa. “I should go. If it’s not convenient. Perhaps we could talk later.”
Ava smiled, and for the first time it seemed sincere. “I’m sorry, Mr. Webster. I’m a bit wary of people in your profession.” She paused. “Iranians don’t trust spies. Tell me. Why do you think he wants us to meet?”
“I have no idea.”
“I do. He wants you to know that he’s a great man. You know he’s a rich man already, and a clever one. But not great, not yet. That’s what I’m for.”
She went on. “How much do you know about what I do?”
“Not much, in truth.”
“That’s all right. We don’t shout about it. He’d like me to, but it’s not helpful. I run a small trust—a charity that helps other charities.”
“In Iran?”
“From here, but yes, in Iran. It isn’t like we see on the news. We see brave people dying in street battles and being sentenced to death for nothing. There are protests, and then there are crackdowns, and they arrest everybody. But all the time good things are happening. There are so many brave people there. And the bravest are the women. Protecting their children, challenging the government, educating each other. There are countless organizations in Iran—tiny, some of them, very local—run by women. The trust helps them. We give them money and advice. Here.” She leaned forward and reached in her purse. “This is my card.”
Webster thanked her. With the change of subject her shell had briefly fallen away.
“Do you go?” he said.
“I used to. But now they won’t give me a visa.”
“Because of what you’re doing?”
“Because of my father. And the work. Others go.”
There was a pause while Webster weighed an opportunity.
“Did you know Cyrus Mehr?” he said.
“Of course.”
“Was he one of them?”
Ava frowned and her tone was cool when she spoke. “Is that what you’re doing? Finding out how he died?”
Webster shook his head. “No.”
“Wait. Is this job you’re doing about him? Fuck.” She looked away, working something out, then looked back. “Is he not telling me something? Has this got to do with the trust?”
“No,” said Webster, raising his hand an inch and doing his best to sound reassuring. “Nothing at all.” He paused to let her see that he was being honest. “If it was, I wouldn’t have tried to get out of here earlier, would I?”
She thought about it. “Not unless you’re exceptionally cunning.”
“I’m not.”
“And it’s not about Mehr?”
“No.”
“So why ask?”
“Public relations aren’t my strong suit. I prefer investigating things.”
Her eyes were still on his, still wary. “It needs investigating.”
“You don’t believe the official version?”
“I don’t believe anything that comes out of there.”
“So what happened?”
She thought for a moment, reaching up and slowly rubbing her ear.
“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “I shouldn’t think we ever will.”
“Did people talk about it? In Iran?”
“Not in Iran, no. Not that I know of.”
“Outside Iran?”
She gave him a searching look, deciding something.
“I don’t think anyone talked about it enough.” She looked at her watch. “I have to go. I’m sorry. It’s been nice talking to you.”
She stood, holding out her hand. Her eyes, which never left his, seemed to say that she was genuinely sorry: she had said too much, but he should not rule out the possibility that she would talk again. Webster watched her walk across the room and out of the door, graceful and com
posed, and before showing himself out took a last look at Qazai’s cabinet. A piece he had not noticed before took his eye: a dull silver jug embossed with grapes and leaves curled around nightingales and a solitary, lurking jackal, its single eye picked out with a tiny bright green stone.
6.
CYRUS MEHR WAS BURIED IN RICHMOND, where he had lived with his wife and his sons in a house that looked out onto the green. Their number, Webster was almost sorry to discover, was in the telephone directory.
The articles published after his death had reported only that Mehr had been killed in Isfahan while on a buying trip. They hadn’t mentioned how. His body had been found in his hotel room and local police were acting on the assumption that robbery had been the motive: the original reports, distributed by the Iranian state news agency, had mentioned that a number of receipts had been found in his possession, and that the most likely culprit was a “collaborator” in Mehr’s “smuggling conspiracy.” They had not identified the objects assumed to be missing, but speculated that they were “national treasures” stolen from museums and archeological digs. There had been a struggle, but neither Mehr’s wallet nor his passport had been taken.
This account had been picked up by the international agencies and then by most British newspapers, who had added little more than some basic biographical information about the man himself. Mehr had had dual citizenship; he had left Iran as a teenager, moved to London, set up his business at the beginning of the 1980s, and married his wife, Jessica, in 1990. He was the head of the Qazai Foundation, and “a much-loved figure” in London’s art world. The story had run for a day or two, padded out with the odd opinion piece about murder rates in Iran and the like, and within a week had faded to nothing.
Webster had read all the articles several times and wasn’t satisfied. He wasn’t sure, to begin with, whether Mehr would have stored his treasures, if that’s what they were, in his hotel room, or that any smuggler would have insisted on receipts with every piece of contraband. Nor did it seem likely that someone who had come for a Safavid prayer rug would have taken the trouble to remove the passport from Mehr’s jacket or the watch from his wrist. But most of all there was something in the tone of the Iranian articles that wasn’t right—a sense that the matter had been instantly understood, concluded and dismissed. It reminded him of similar statements he had heard too often in Russia, about the sudden death of awkward people.
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