The Jackal's Share

by Christopher Morgan Jones

  “Fletcher, Christ. Since when were you so timid?”

  There was silence on the line. After a full five seconds Constance spoke.

  “How did you dream up this master plan, anyway? Was it Ike?”

  “For once, no. Qazai gave me the idea, if you can believe that. In Marrakech. He showed me you can bribe a man against his will.”

  “Is that what he calls it?” He paused. “If you say so. OK, Captain Marvel. What do you need me to do?”

  “Find a good spot to pick me up.”

  “Jesus, Ben. I don’t need a whole day to pick a fucking spot.” He paused to let his pique register. “We could use a parking lot. Where are you staying?”

  “I don’t know that we are. There are rooms booked at the Burj.”

  “He fucking loves it there, doesn’t he?”

  “He seems to think it’s safe.”

  “Oh it’s a regular fortress. He just feels safe because the place is made of money.”

  “No doubt.”

  “Let’s do it there. That’ll work. They’ll never come over the bridge. You drop your bags, then our favorite money-launderer leaves and I’ll be there to take you the back way to our little rendezvous. At that distance they’ll never see who’s getting in and out of cars.”

  “That,” said Webster, “is quite neat.”

  “Thank you. What time?”

  “Be there by six forty-five.”

  “In the morning?”

  “In the evening.”

  “Jesus. Why so late?”

  “I need to give Rad time to get there. I don’t want him sending a stooge.”

  Fletcher sighed, and Webster heard him drawing deeply on his cigarette.

  “What if they haven’t been watching Qazai’s mail?” he said at last.

  “Then it’s a long trip for nothing.”

  • • •

  BEFORE THE LONG TRIP, there was a long day’s wait. Webster sent his e-mail to Qazai a little after eight on Friday morning, and at much the same time the next day the two men climbed the steps to the Bombardier, glaringly white in the full sunshine of the morning, and set off for Dubai. In between, Qazai stayed in Mount Street, with double the guard, and Webster took an overnight bag to Hammer’s house, watching his back from time to time along the way.

  Hammer was sure that there was enough in the message to have Rad leaving on the next plane—forwarding the brief correspondence with Constance, it had named the time and place of the proposed meeting in Dubai and, to make sure he took care of it personally, had mentioned Rad by name—but even he could see that for once caution was prudent. “If you’re going to Dubai there’s no way he’ll try anything in London,” he had said as he and Webster had drawn up the plan in the first place, “because the British have an irritating habit of investigating murders. Our friends in the Gulf are not similarly encumbered. But he is one unpredictable fucker and you’d better keep out of the way until we’re sure.” For the same reason Ava, who wasn’t speaking to her father and only reluctantly took a call from Webster, was eventually persuaded to have two guards outside her apartment, and a small army of former SAS men had been dispatched the previous night to Cornwall. Webster could picture them stationed at the beginning of the only lane that led to the house, with perhaps a man or two on the path from the woods and another, if they were being thorough, on the jetty by the sea. His mother would be making them tea, and Elsa would be doing her best to pretend they weren’t there.

  For much of the journey neither Webster nor Qazai spoke. Quite simply, Webster thought, each had had enough of the other, and was waiting for the moment when they could finally separate. Each reminded the other of the faults in himself that he least wanted to contemplate: each depended on the other for some sort of redemption. No, redemption was not being offered. Seen in the best possible light, they were trying to ensure the safety of their families; in the worst, they were indulging in a grubby piece of blackmail to save their own lives.

  Sitting in his leather seat, watching the clouds and occasionally reading a paragraph of Norman Mailer, Webster studied his client, studied himself and found it difficult to conclude that either life was worth saving. Qazai was vain, slippery, callously self-assured; a man who had no idea where his center was, and who had filled that hole with money; a bully, a sham and ultimately a coward. Webster liked to think he was none of these things, but wondered now whether the qualities they shared were as repugnant: a weakness in the face of temptation, a distorted notion of responsibility, an easy way of manipulating people when the cause seemed sufficiently important—or when it suited them. Neither was as distant as the other liked to believe. They had become a pair.

  • • •

  PAST THE BLACK SEA the cloud that had covered most of Europe cleared and below them desert stretched ahead, a haze of heat blurring the horizon. For an hour all he saw was sand, sometimes criss-crossed with roads, and every now and then a city like a smudge in the distance. The sun had reached its peak and was beginning to hang lower in the sky as they approached the Persian Gulf, abruptly hard and black. Qazai, who had read a Financial Times and a Wall Street Journal with great concentration, and was now scribbling in a notebook on his knee (which Webster took to be a sign of undue confidence in their mission), happened to glance up to check on their progress, but instead of going back to his work as he had before, continued to stare out of the window, his expression suddenly rueful and detached. Webster watched him, guessing at the reason for this sudden change and wondering, not for the first time, whether it was sentimentality, or performance, or some real sense of his betrayal.

  “That’s Iran,” said Qazai, without looking at Webster.

  “I know.”

  Qazai said nothing for a full minute, his face close to the glass.

  “I haven’t served my country well.”

  Webster didn’t reply.

  28.

  BY THE TIME THEY TOUCHED DOWN the sun was beginning to set behind the tallest of Dubai’s mirrored towers, glinting like gold in the yellow light, and the desert around the airport was turning a deep, dead ochre. As they stood by the door waiting for steps to be wheeled to the plane Qazai gave Webster a long, meaningful look, and then nodded, as if to say that after all this time, at the end of it all, he finally considered him to be a worthy cohort.

  They breezed through the terminal—open only to private flights, and so obliging that even Webster’s spare passport, reserved for occasional trips to Israel, caused no delay—and found in a line of shiny cars outside a discreet black Mercedes that Webster had last seen parked at Timur’s house. While Qazai greeted the driver, Webster took off his jacket, draped it over his shoulder, where it hung heavy in the heat, scanned the road and wondered whether Rad was there to greet them.

  Almost certainly not. He had one chance to stop the meeting taking place, and he had to kill two people to make sure. If he chose to intercept them on their way from the airport, he had all manner of unknowns to consider: their route, whether they would travel in one car or two, whether they would stop along the way, whether he would ever have the perfect opportunity to act. Given enough men he might follow them from the airport, just to make sure they went where they were meant to go, but otherwise he would surely do what he was being encouraged to do, which was ambush them at the meeting place, specially chosen to tempt a practiced assassin. They were returning to the restaurant where Constance had taken Webster, which was perfect for Rad’s purposes: a quiet, ill-lit road ran past it, and a gunman in a parked car or on one of the low roofs would have all the time in the world to take his shot. It would be dark, and it would be more or less deserted. Webster was certain that Rad had taken one look at it and known exactly what he was going to do.

  Among the sports cars and the Bentleys he saw no obvious tail, and as Qazai’s driver pulled away he carefully checked the road behind them through the
black glass. At first he could see nothing, but as they turned onto the main road that linked the terminals he saw a dark-gray Audi move out from the queue of cars and head in their direction.

  “Anything?” said Qazai, twisting around in the seat next to him.

  “Possibly. It doesn’t matter. We know what to do.”

  Qazai was trying to look calm but his forehead was spotted with sweat, and more than once since getting in the car he had scratched absentmindedly at his beard.

  “Do you think it’s him?”

  “I don’t know. If I was him I’d want to be there waiting for us.” He shook his head.

  “Why don’t we just lose him?”

  Webster pinched his eyes closed. They had been through this. “Because whoever that is, if it’s anybody, we want them to think we don’t know they’re there.”

  • • •

  IT TOOK THEM half an hour to reach the Burj, and for all that time, with apparent skill, the gray Audi stayed six or seven cars behind. Webster couldn’t be sure, but nevertheless he knew, and he felt his heart quicken and his breathing grow shallow in his chest. All week he had been so taken up with planning and arranging that he hadn’t stopped to imagine—hadn’t dared imagine—how it might actually feel to be here, like this, driving slowly into a trap of his own making. He sat as calmly as he could, one hand on the documents beside him.

  The bridge to the hotel was four hundred meters long; he had measured it from the satellite picture. At the end of its sweeping curve the great steel sail—still pristinely white, still unlikely—rose up into the blue-black sky. As they waited for the guard on the gate to talk to their driver, Webster watched the tourists coming and going in the faded sunshine. Through the open window came the sound of chatter and fleeting screams from the water park that overlooked the sea.

  The guard nodded, the gate rose, the steel barrier sunk down into the tarmac and they moved off, driving over the water at a stately pace. Webster checked behind them. While they had been stationary the Audi had been out of sight, but halfway across the bridge he looked back to see it round a corner from the main road and draw into a parking lot opposite the guard’s hut.

  “Is it there?” said Qazai.

  Webster nodded, but as he glanced across at the strain in Qazai’s face he wished he hadn’t. It was important for this next stage that they both remain composed.

  The car slowed to a halt under the canopy of the hotel, and as he got out Webster looked back along the bridge. He couldn’t see the other car, and at this distance in this light no one from the shore could be sure of seeing him, but they had to be quick. Chances were the Audi would stay where it was until it saw them leave, but one of them might try his luck at convincing the guard to let him cross the bridge.

  Qazai’s driver was handing the bags to a porter; Qazai was looking about him with the lost air of someone who was used to buying hotels like this and who couldn’t quite believe that he was now reduced to playing such tawdry games in them. Beyond their car, its hood down and pointing toward them, positively rakish amidst all the glitz, was Constance’s Cadillac.

  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.”

&nbs
p; 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 MEN in 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.