The Jackal's Share

by Christopher Morgan Jones

  “You are alone?” said Shokhor. The folds of his chin creased as he looked down at his watch.

  “Quite alone. I’ve ordered tea. Will you join me?”

  Shokhor nodded, sat down on the sofa opposite Webster, looked around comprehensively and nodded again, this time at his bodyguard, who started a slow patrol of the room. A waiter came, and left with an order for another pot of tea.

  Shokhor was waiting for Webster to speak. His face was comfortable, well-fed, but his eyes were nervous; they flickered about.

  “I know you don’t have long, Mr. Shokhor, so I’ll come straight to the point. Occasionally my company trades in goods that need to be transported with great care. They can get damaged when they cross borders, for instance. Sometimes when we take possession of them they are in places where . . . where discretion is required in dealing with the legal authorities.”

  Shokhor kept his face free of expression, and Webster, leaning forward, projecting an air of confidentiality, went on.

  “Much of our work is in the former Soviet Union. Central Asia, mostly. We have good relationships there. But we have some interesting opportunities now in this part of the world. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I wanted to talk.”

  Shokhor smoothed his mustache with his forefinger and thumb.

  “How did you find my name?”

  “I do business with a collector in London. He gets most of his pieces from this part of the world.”

  “What is his name?”

  “He didn’t want me to say.”

  Shokhor shook his head, made a frown with his lips. “That seems strange to me.”

  “I would imagine that he doesn’t want you to know that I work with him. Perhaps I don’t either.”

  “What does he collect?”

  Webster smiled. “Well. If I tell you, you may know who he is. But at least I won’t have given you his name.” He pretended to hesitate. “He’s a generalist. Islamic art. Pre-Islamic. He has a huge collection. But he has a special interest in Iran.”

  Shokhor frowned again, shaking his head. He shifted in his seat, so that he was no longer looking at Webster but out toward the pool. “Mr. Taylor. If we are to do business it has to be on an introduction. I am not saying we cannot, but you must first have someone vouch for you.” He stood, and looked down at Webster. “You understand. This is business.”

  Webster rose, and they shook hands. “I understand completely. If you hear from me again you will hear from our mutual friend first.”

  Shokhor gave him one last look, inclined his head a quarter of an inch by way of a bow, and left, followed at a close but respectful distance by his man.

  Webster watched them leave and called Constance.

  “Jesus. You’re done already? Did he blow you off?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Does he know Qazai?”

  “I’d say he genuinely had no idea who I was talking about. But I have what I wanted. Come and get me.” He hung up, and retrieving Shokhor’s card from his pocket inspected it again. On it were two telephone numbers, one local, one Cyprus, either of which might be enough.

  As he waited for Constance in the heat outside his phone rang.

  “Mr. Webster?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Timur Qazai. I need you to come now. Can you come now?”

  Webster wondered whether he was about to have his plans changed again to accommodate a Qazai conference call. He gestured to Constance, arriving in the Cadillac, to wait for a moment.

  “I need my papers.”

  “Forget the papers. Come right now. Find a cab.” Timur sounded tense, with none of his father’s smoothness. “To my house. My home address.”

  Webster suppressed a sigh. “Mr. Qazai, I’m here to interview you. I need my questions.”

  “Fuck the questions. I need your help.” He paused, and Webster waited. “My son’s been kidnapped.”

  • • •

  CONSTANCE DROVE THROUGH the afternoon traffic like a man who had finally found a purpose in life, with one hand on the horn and the other gesturing at the mainly stationary cars to get out of his way, swearing robustly as he went. The Cadillac surged and stuttered and made slow progress until they left the main road.

  The Qazais lived in the east of the city, in an area that like so many things in Dubai seemed to have been built just the day before. One aloof enclosure led to another on a lazily winding road whose tarmac was so fresh that it felt like a trespass to drive on it, but Constance seemed not to care as he swung the heavy car around corner after corner, past the security cameras perched on every wall. Webster caught glimpses of the villas through the wrought-iron gates: bricked driveways, black cars in the shade, arched verandas, young palm trees waiting to grow.

  Timur’s was no different. Not the largest, by any means, nor ostentatious for someone as wealthy as he must be, but new, and well built, and slightly bland. As the car pulled up on the verge Webster saw signs of life that had been missing from the others. Two children’s bikes leaned against the porch; at the far end of the garden there was a small goal with a soccer ball in it; brightly colored towels lay scattered around the pool.

  “Thanks, Fletcher. I’ll make my own way back.”

  “Bullshit. I’m coming in.”

  “You want them to know we work together?”

  Constance thought for a moment, pulling at the beard on his chin.

  “Don’t give them my name. Let’s go.” He had opened his door and was walking toward the intercom on the gatepost before Webster could respond.

  The gates swung slowly open, and Timur came out from the porch to greet them, looking haggard and momentarily confused.

  “Mr. Webster?” His eyes moved from one to the other.

  “I’m Webster.”

  Timur offered his hand, looking at Constance. He had his father’s eyes, almost, a clear blue but somehow dimmed, and the same proud brow, but his lips were fuller and his expression softer, less majestic. Thick black hair made him seem younger than he actually was, but he looked tired: the skin under his eyes was a livid gray and his hand was tacky with sweat.

  “This is a friend of mine. Peter Fletcher. We were talking when you called.” Constance beamed and held out a hand.

  Timur shook it distractedly, looking at Webster. “I only want you.”

  “He might be able to help. And he won’t say anything to anyone.”

  Timur considered it, and Constance did his best to appear respectable.

  “Come,” he said, and led the way into the cool interior of the house.

  “This is Raisa, my wife. Raisa, this is Mr. Webster, and his friend.”

  Raisa took Webster’s hand. Webster tried to place her; she was dark, but not Arabic, slight and pretty, her brown eyes quick and scared. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “This way, please,” said Timur, and they followed him into the kitchen, where they sat down around the table. He looked at Raisa briefly, with a mixture of reassurance and fear, and began. “We had a call from our driver forty minutes ago.” He closed his eyes, collected himself and went on. “He takes our son Parviz to swimming every Wednesday. They were coming home when the car got a flat tire. A car pulled up, a man got out. With a gun. He took Parviz.” There was a catch in his voice as he said it.

  “Have you called the police?” said Webster.

  “Straight away. They should be here.” His hand tensed on the table.

  “Where did it happen?”

  “By the racecourse.”

  Webster looked at Constance, who understood. “About fifteen minutes away.”

  “How well do you know your driver?” said Webster.

  “All his life. His father drove for mine.”

  “Did he get the number plate?”

  “Yes.”

 
“Where is he?”

  “Looking.”

  “Tell him to come back. The police will want to speak to him.”

  As Timur typed a text into his phone Webster pressed on.

  “Do they always take the same route?”

  “Probably. I’m not sure.”

  “Who might have done it?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Webster looked at him steadily.

  “Really,” said Timur. He glanced at his wife and shook his head. “None.”

  “We’re rich,” said Raisa, biting at the side of her thumb. “It happens.”

  “What sort of car was it?” said Webster.

  “A BMW. A black BMW.”

  “New?”

  Timur looked puzzled. “I think so. I don’t know. Does it matter?”

  Constance spoke, his deep voice full of authority. “It doesn’t happen often. And they don’t drive fancy cars when it does.”

  Timur shook his head, leaned forward in frustration. “Look. My son is out there. They might be at the airport by now. In half an hour they could be in Oman. You have to do something.” His phone beeped and he looked at it distractedly.

  “The police have the resources,” said Webster. “All we can do is try to work out what’s happening in the hope that will help.”

  “That’s not a priority. It’s not useful now.”

  Webster kept his expression neutral. “What did the police say?”

  “That they’d put out an alert, and someone would be here soon.”

  “Do you think they will?”

  “God. I don’t know.” He looked at Raisa in frustration. “Yes. They should. They know who we are.”

  The intercom chimed and Timur went to answer it.

  “It’s them.”

  He went outside, and Raisa followed. Webster and Constance looked at each other over the table.

  Constance grunted. “What are you thinking?”

  “That it’s not about money. More of a feeling.”

  Timur returned with two men, both in khaki uniform, both wearing gray peaked caps, and introduced Webster to them as his lawyer. Constance he didn’t mention. One of the officers, older, bearded, with a row of ribbon medals on his chest, offered his hand to Webster.

  “Captain Faraj.”

  He shook Constance’s hand and sat at the table, waiting for everyone to join him.

  “Every police car in Dubai knows the number plate and model of the car. This is good. We are treating this as a top priority.”

  Timur thanked him, and the captain gave a bow of his head.

  “Without a passport for your son they will not be able to leave the country. I will need a photograph of him that we can circulate.” Timur nodded at Raisa, who got up and left. “Where is your driver?”

  “On his way.”

  “I will need a full account. You trust him?”

  “Completely.”

  “Have you heard from the kidnappers?”

  “Nothing.”

  The captain gestured at his subordinate, who took a pad and a pen from the top pocket of his shirt.

  “The basic details first. How old is your son?”

  “Nine.”

  “Is he your only child?”

  “No. We have another son. Farhad. He’s five.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Upstairs with his nanny.”

  “He doesn’t swim?”

  “Only here.”

  Timur’s phone rang, the shrill tone like a shock. He looked at it, then at the captain, and shook his head, once, to indicate that he didn’t know the number. Raisa came back into the room, a photograph in her hand, her face anxious. On the second ring he answered, glancing nervously between her and Webster.

  “Yes . . . Yes . . . Yes I am.” He turned from the table slightly, putting a hand to his free ear, as if he couldn’t hear what was being said. “What, there? Oh, thank God. Thank God.” He reached his hand up to Raisa and held hers tightly. “Where? I’m coming now. Right now. Let me speak to him . . . Parviz? Sweetheart? Everything’s OK. I’m coming to get you. You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

  • • •

  PARVIZ WAS A SKINNY, leggy boy, clearly bright, who held his mother’s hand and answered the captain’s questions with great composure. He was in shock, and his face looked drained, but he was a perfect witness, and by the time Raisa told the men that she was going to make him something to eat and that they should go and sit out of the way by the pool, he had described every last detail of his short abduction. The driver, Khalil, was if anything the more distraught, but what he said was consistent and plausible, if strange.

  Khalil had taken Parviz to the pool as he always did. They had arrived a little before three, and at ten past four Parviz had come out with all the other boys. After half a mile one of the tires on the car, one of the Tabriz fleet, had run flat, and Khalil had been forced to pull over at the entrance to a construction site, telling Parviz to get out and stand a few meters back from the road while he changed the wheel. As he was fetching the spare from the boot, a black BMW with Dubai plates had driven up, and a man had got out of the passenger seat. He was in his thirties or forties, possibly Arabic, possibly Iranian or Iraqi, of compact build, and he wore sunglasses. Smiling, he had told Khalil that he was a friend of Timur’s, that he’d recognized their car, and that he’d be happy to drive Parviz home rather than making him stand here at the side of the road. By this time he was standing by Parviz, ruffling his hair. Khalil had thanked him but declined, and at this the man had reached for his waistband and the silver pistol that lay concealed there. He had then taken Parviz’s hand and led him to the BMW. Parviz had appealed to Khalil and tried to break free, but the man had merely dragged him to the waiting car, opened the rear door and shoved him in, sliding in after him as the car had driven off. Khalil, stalled at gunpoint, simply hadn’t known how to react.

  Parviz volunteered that the men in the car hadn’t hurt him; they had just left him to cry. He hadn’t been tied or blindfolded. There were two of them: the man who had put him in the car, and a driver. They hadn’t said anything to each other. Not a word. For a long time they had just driven, Parviz wasn’t sure where. Around and around, it had felt like. Then the car had gone into the parking lot of a big shopping center and stopped. The man in sunglasses had calmly taken Parviz by the hand into a supermarket and told him he was to wait by the fruit, count to three hundred, and let one of the cashiers know who he was and that he wanted to go home. Before walking away he had given Parviz a piece of paper with Timur’s phone number printed on it.

  Throughout, Webster and Constance said nothing. The captain was thorough, but no longer urgent, and though it was almost dark by the time he left and no question had gone unasked Webster sensed that this odd episode was no longer a priority.

  Timur, though, continued to look both relieved and haunted. Webster liked him. He was less slick than his father, with a quiet sadness about him, as if this strange world had been forced upon him and he was dutifully living someone else’s life. More than once he had said that such a thing wouldn’t have happened if they had been able to remain in London, and nothing in his manner suggested that he relished the prospect of inheriting the Qazai empire. Webster was reminded of Ava’s word for him: enslaved.

  When the captain had gone, he offered his guests drinks, for form’s sake, it seemed. Webster declined, and glared at Constance when he replied that a large whisky with lots of ice would go down very well.

  “Do you have to?” he said, as Timur went inside.

  “Hair of the dog, my friend. Better late than never.”

  It was so calm here. The pool water swirled, sprinklers swept the lawn, under the garden lights the grass was a pristine, uniform green, and for the first time Webster felt at one with the heat. Looking over
his shoulder he could see Timur crouching down to say goodnight to Parviz, closing him in a tight hug.

  A maid appeared with three tumblers full of whisky and ice. Constance took his, swallowed it in a draft, put the glass back on the tray and beamed up at her.

  “Another would be lovely. Thank you so much.”

  Timur returned and raised his glass an inch to Webster before he drank, and for a while no one said anything.

  “What do you think they wanted?” Webster said at last.

  By the pale glow of the pool Webster saw Timur frown.

  “Money. It must be.”

  “A ransom?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “So why didn’t they go through with it?”

  “Because they got cold feet.”

  “But they said nothing in the car.”

  Timur frowned again. “I don’t follow you.”

  “They stuck to their plan. They didn’t panic.”

  “They don’t sound like the panicking kind,” said Constance, with meaning.

  “Can you think,” said Webster, watching Timur closely, “who might want to send you a message?”

  Timur shook his head. “No.” And after a pause, “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Why? You’re feeling vulnerable. Your family doesn’t feel safe. Maybe that’s all they wanted.”

  Timur held Webster’s eye, and in that moment he seemed both resolute and scared.

  “Is there anyone who might want you to leave Dubai? Run you out of town?” Constance asked, sipping at his new drink.

  “All I want,” Timur said, “is to know that my family is protected.”

  “That’s difficult,” said Webster. “Without knowing what the threat is.”

  Timur shook his head. His eyes seemed focused elsewhere, and in that moment Webster sensed that he was feeling acutely alone. But he rallied, and when he spoke again he was cool, businesslike.

  “Do you have any advice for me?”

  Webster waited for a moment before answering, his silence punctuating the change in tone. “Practically speaking, you should talk to a professional. I know a good man. His name’s George Black. He’ll call you tomorrow morning.”

  Timur nodded. “Thank you.”