“No, thank you. I only smoke abroad.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
She inhaled deeply and smiled as she blew out the smoke, her poise restored.
He waited for her to speak again but for half a minute she simply smoked, looking out at the park and the runners and cyclists coursing around the sand track.
“I’ve thought a lot about this,” she said at last, dropping her cigarette to the ground and twisting it out with her shoe. “When I saw you in Como . . . when we had that lunch, I felt sure that something would change, but it hasn’t. I think he’s made his choice.”
Webster did his best to look understanding, but what she said made little sense. After a pause she went on.
“You love your family, don’t you?”
“Very much.”
“How would you expect to be dealt with if you put them in danger?”
The words caused a brief flush in Webster’s chest. “Harshly.”
Ava said nothing but nodded twice, finally settling something.
“I don’t know where to start.” She paused, searching for the beginning. “OK. OK. I went to Paris, what, two months ago? To see a friend. I can’t give you his name. Since I haven’t been able to go to Iran he’s become important to me. He’s an exile, a politician.” She felt in her handbag for her cigarettes, took one from the pack and passed the lighter to Webster, who lit it as before. “Thank you.” She took a deep draw. “So I see this man every so often and ask him about what’s going on in Iran. He has excellent sources. God, it’s not warm, is it?” She shivered, drawing the shawl more closely around her. “This last time he called the meeting, which he’s never done before, and when I got there he was odd. Cagey. He had something to say but it took him a long time to get there.”
I could say the same about this evening, Webster thought, hoping that whatever she had to say would be good.
“Eventually he asks me if my father has been behaving strangely. How? I ask him. Since his friend died, he says, in Iran. Then he tells me that he knows, from a good source, that my father is in a lot of trouble. With some very nasty people.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. He just told me that it had to do with money, that I should be careful, and I should talk to my father. Then he went.”
“Did you believe him?”
“He’s never lied to me. And he was agitated. Like someone who’s said too much.”
Ava blew cigarette smoke out into the wind.
“Have you talked to your father?”
“Not for a while. I figured his problems are his own. We talk less than we did. But after what happened to Parviz I had to. In Como, after you’d left.”
“What did he say?”
“He was furious. He told me he had enough people prying into his affairs and he didn’t need another.” Her cigarette was only half smoked but she stubbed it out. “I told him that if he couldn’t protect his family he wasn’t the great man he thought he was.” She smiled, but Webster could see that she was scared. “Do you think I’m right?”
• • •
FOR SEVERAL DAYS AFTERWARD Webster wandered from place to place like an outcast, waiting, comfortable nowhere. Elsa was cool, quiet, and unconvinced by his assurances, which felt both more plausible and more hollow each time he repeated them. His home, he realized, didn’t tolerate dishonesty; it reflected it back at him, like some fairy-tale paradise that blessed the pure in heart and tormented the wicked. Had he been able, he would have taken himself off on his quest and returned, humbled, only when he had made everything right.
At least the contract was more practical at work. Hammer was being bright and businesslike, making it clear that while he hadn’t enjoyed their last exchange he hadn’t been offended by it, and that no harm would be done if the Qazai case could now progress efficiently to its conclusion. This was straightforward and reasonable. Concentrate on Shokhor, and finish the case. But Webster knew, somehow, that there was nothing there. He was sure that before Qazai had even thought of Ikertu, he had seen a copy of the allegations against him, and was confident they were nonsense; sure that he never expected some lowly detective to exceed his brief, not when he was being paid to do as he was told; equally sure that he was doing everything in his power to bend that lowly detective to his will.
In any case, Oliver had been through Shokhor’s phone bills and found nothing of interest—or at least nothing of interest to this case. The police in several countries would no doubt have found them enthralling, but there were no calls to Qazai, Senechal, Mehr, or any Swiss art dealers, and even though the records only went back two years and didn’t cover the period in question, Webster chose to see in them further support for what he knew already. Shokhor was not the story. The story lay somewhere else, and if he didn’t find it soon Qazai would ensure that it was never told.
So when he had tired of sitting at his desk, trying and failing to start a report that he never wanted to see written, and long before it was time for him to return home, Webster would leave the office and walk, with no destination in mind, and try to resist the urge to ask Dean or Fletcher whether they had discovered anything more since his last call. Even in that short period he developed a routine: an early swim, breakfast with the children, Ikertu until a little after lunch, and then what was in effect a long walk home, in a broad arc around the top of the city or following the river before heading north. Every day, London was hot and close.
Serious concerns contended with grave ones. A formal letter had arrived from the Italians asking him to appear in Milan for further questioning, and the date they had set was four days after the Websters were due to leave for their summer holiday in Cornwall. He had not yet told Elsa. His Italian lawyer was trying to come to an agreement with the police that Webster would not be arrested if he did attend, but described his chances only as reasonable; and, on the other hand, if Webster refused to answer questions now it would count against him if the matter ever came to trial—a trial he could not avoid. Signore Lucca had no advice about the most difficult aspect of the whole business, which was whether Qazai had the power to stop the process that he had in all likelihood started.
It was on one of these walks that Oliver finally called.
• • •
HIS OFFICE FACED SOUTH and didn’t run to air conditioning, or even a fan. A grubby cream blind was down over the window and Oliver, unusually, had taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He was still wearing his tie.
“You don’t want coffee, I take it?”
Webster shook his head, impatient to get on with it.
“I just had some luck with the banks.”
“Mehr?”
“Mister Mehr. Correct. I’ll be honest with you, Ben, it’s a while since I’ve done a dead man’s bank accounts. Got to think on your feet a bit.”
Webster did his best not to think about what sort of agility was being employed on his behalf.
“So Mehr only had a couple of accounts. One here, one in Jersey. My man in Jersey—good man—found some interesting stuff a few days ago, but I wanted to see where it led before I bothered you. Truss it up nicely if I could.”
Webster nodded.
“So.” Oliver leaned forward against the desk and clasped his hands, pushing the thumbs together. “Mehr does all right for himself. Did all right for himself. Lots of business, most of it what you’d expect. He buys from the Middle East, and most of the money coming in is offshore. Smallest transactions are in the low thousands and they go up to millions. It’s more or less random. And then every so often, you get a little flurry of big payments coming in. Last March, last May, July, October, there were millions in the space of two days. Round amounts, fairly regular. But nothing this year.”
He looked at Webster to make sure he was keeping up, then
carried on.
“OK. So that’s not so odd. Maybe he’s buying stuff for the Qazai Foundation or some other big client. But if he is, they’re paying him in advance.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the money comes in, then goes out. He gets paid first, then buys whatever he buys.”
“So he’s being financed.”
“Perhaps. But it seems strange that he doesn’t take a cut.”
Webster looked at him, a faint, familiar thrill in his chest.
“The money goes straight through,” said Oliver, leaning back in his chair and linking his hands on top of his head. “If two million comes in, two million goes out.”
“Where does it go?”
Oliver smiled. “Deeper offshore. I’m working on it.”
The sun still beat against the blind, and Webster could feel sweat standing on his skin. He looked at Oliver and shook his head. He had known it. He had always known that there would be something to find.
“Is it Qazai’s money?”
“Give me time.”
Along the frame of the window Webster could see a thin band of low rooftops and brilliant blue sky. He tried to work out what this meant. That money had been deliberately cleaned; if anyone looked, it would appear that Mehr had been going about his business, buying artifacts.
“What’s he doing?”
“Nothing good,” said Oliver, bright teeth showing in his grin.
• • •
CONSTANCE, MEANWHILE, HAD GONE QUIET. This was unlike him: his usual policy when he had found nothing useful was to proclaim the failure loudly and insistently until it felt like your fault, and his silence was bound to mean something interesting. Webster, who had left him a message on his return from Milan and another before his meeting with Ava, was beginning to think about asking common friends in Dubai whether he’d finally been thrown in jail or out of the country when early one morning came a call.
He stared at the number for a moment before answering, not recognizing it. Senechal had been bothering him every day since Milan and he had let each call go to voicemail. But this wasn’t a French number, or an English one, and he decided to take the risk.
“Hello.”
“Ben. Fletcher. You must have thought I’d died.”
“That was the only thing that hadn’t crossed my mind.” It was impossible to imagine Constance dead: who or what would dare extinguish all that energy?
“I appreciate your confidence,” he chuckled grimly. “Though I don’t share it. My apologies, my friend. I have spent the last week fighting for my life, in Dubai at least.”
Webster wasn’t in the mood for a mystery, but knew he had to ask anyway, and Constance proceeded to explain.
“I had a visit—a visit, no less—at my office, last Monday. Nearly two weeks ago. From the General Directorate of Residency and Foreign Affairs, that august and valiant body of men. They wanted to know what my purpose was in remaining in Dubai. The betterment of my soul, I told them, but they weren’t happy with that. Not plausible. No one would go to Dubai for the good of their soul, and they knew that, to their credit. So I gave them some of the usual guff about journalism and consultancy, etcetera, etcetera, and they asked to see my papers, and they pored over them for longer than it would take any dunce just to read the things, and then they told me that there were inconsistencies, whatever the fuck they might be, and that my visa was under review. Because I had been in Dubai a long time and had affairs that might need clearing up they would very generously not frogmarch me to the airport immediately but would expect to see me at their offices in exactly a week, for a hearing. Which was three days ago.”
“And how did it go?”
“It went. Nothing was decided. I took my lawyer and he tangled them up a bit. I have to go back in two weeks.”
“Who did you offend?”
“Ha! I have no idea. Take your pick. It’s a miracle I lasted as long as I did. What I did not do, thankfully, was kiss anybody in public or bring in the wrong cough medicine. That would have been a whole lot worse. Anyway, I’m having a break from the place. Beirut is beautiful and sane. I was in the mountains yesterday. Maybe I’ll stay. Finish the house. Ditch that harlot.”
It would never happen, unless he was forced. Constance adored Dubai: it kept him alive. Without its absurdities and its intrigues he’d slowly wilt. Webster couldn’t help thinking, obsessed as he was, that it was strange timing for him to be exiled now.
“Can I do anything?”
“That’s sweet of you. Sweet of you. But no, thank you. I’m not sure there’s anything to be done. And in any case I didn’t call to moan at you. I called to tell you things.”
“Tell me what?”
“Well, I have good news and bad news. And an invitation. The bad news is that my friend won’t tell me anything more than he already has. He seems to be regretting his earlier garrulousness. But. But. He is interested in what you know, and might like to get together to share. That’s the invitation.”
“Is this the sort of sharing where I tell him stuff and he thanks me for it?”
Constance grunted in amusement. “Only one way to find out.”
“Can you tell me who he is?”
“Not until you agree to meet.”
“When?”
“Next week.”
“Fine. Set it up.” Webster paused; on the other end of the line he could hear the click of a lighter and a long, extravagant exhaling of smoke. “What was the good news?”
“Ah, that. Your friend Cyrus Mehr. The case is closed. The order has been given to file that file.”
“They have a murderer?”
Constance bellowed in contempt. “Of course not.”
“That’s good news?”
“Not unless you gave the order. But I happen to know who did.”
14.
THREE DAYS LATER, Hammer came to Webster’s office, the first time he had sought him out since events in Milan. He had just arrived from Hampstead and was still in his running things, all bone and sinewy health.
“Good morning,” he said, in good spirits. “You look well.”
“No I don’t.”
“Well, perhaps not.” Hammer came and sat by Webster’s desk. “I’ve been doing some investigating.”
“That’s meant to be my job.”
“I thought it might be better for all of us, especially you, if I had a look myself.”
Webster leaned back in his chair and gripped the armrests. “Go on then.”
“The short story, which is very short, is that it’s all garbage. Everything in the Americans’ report.” He looked for Webster’s response but got none. “You remember we thought it might be from U.S. military? Part of their investigation? I made a few calls, and spoke to the Major in charge. Nice man.”
“They wouldn’t tell me anything.”
“Well, maybe you weren’t doing it right. If you’d come to me, maybe they would.”
Webster thought better of reacting, and Hammer went on.
“It all came from them. The relief, Shokhor, the National Museum. And they thought it was true up until a month ago. Tell me, have you found your Swiss dealer yet?”
“No. That’s going nowhere.”
“I can tell you who he is. His name’s Jacques Bovet, and he sells very expensive things to very expensive people out of Lausanne. Jacques has form. After the first Gulf War there was an amnesty on looted items and because he knew he was about to get caught, he returned something. Next time around he’s stealing again, only this time they do catch him, and they make a deal. By the way, they have the sculpture, all in one piece.”
“That’s good.”
“That is good. You should be pleased. It’s a beautiful thing.”
“I’m pleased. Believe me. It’s the only innocent in the w
hole affair.”
Hammer sniffed. “So they talk to Jacques: tell us who’s in the chain. Well, he says, an Iraqi gentleman called Shokhor brought it to him and a Brit called Mehr took it off his hands. Mehr bought one or two things off Jacques in the past and Jacques thinks—says he thinks—he’s acting for a wealthy London collector called Darius Qazai. Because Qazai is just the sort of person who would want this piece. Jacques is bargaining on my friends not doing a good job of investigating this . . .”
“Your friends?”
“They’re my friends now. Never miss an opportunity to make a friend, Ben.” Hammer gave him a look of amused rebuke. “But he’s wrong. They do a great job, and three weeks ago they go to Jacques and tell him he’s talking horseshit. And he can’t squirm out. Turns out he wasn’t telling the truth. Apparently you can’t trust a Swiss antiques dealer like you used to.”
Webster unfastened his watch and wound the pin. None of this was a surprise. “He knew there was nothing in it when he came here. Qazai. He’d seen a copy of the report, no question.”
“Maybe. It makes no difference.”
Neither said anything for a time, Hammer’s unspoken challenge lying between them. Webster carried on winding his watch, looking at the second hand smoothly ticking around. He broke the silence.
“I can’t write that report.”
“You’ll have to. But I’m not done.”
“There’s something else going on.”
“Like what?”
Webster couldn’t say. He couldn’t reveal Oliver’s work, because Ike would stop it. “He’s in trouble. Shiraz has lost a fortune and he needs money.”
“That doesn’t make him a crook.”
“Then why is he screwing me? Tell me that.”
“Ben, he didn’t invent what you did in Italy.”
Webster shook his head and looked away. “I can’t believe this.”
“I said I’m not done.”
But Webster wasn’t ready to respond. Outside, far below, under a blue sky, people were hurrying home with determined walks, catching taxis, wandering away in groups to the bar. It would have been the most wonderful thing in the world to follow them: to write something bland, accept the compromise, hope Qazai did the same and resume his life. Go home.
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