Webster placed his recorder on the corner of the desk, set it going and began. His first dozen questions were about the sculpture, and Qazai’s answers were predictable. No, he did not know a Mr. Shokhor; he had never bought anything at all from a Swiss dealer, to his knowledge; Mehr might have done but if he had he had never mentioned it. He was, in short, mystified by the whole business, and would be glad when Webster had finally settled it.
“Do you have anything to tell me?” he said, expectant.
“No. Not yet. We’re making progress.”
“How long, do you think?”
“It depends. Sometimes these things just give. Sometimes they can get tricky. Two or three weeks, I would say.”
Qazai nodded briskly, as if to say that that wasn’t quick enough but would have to do, and waited for the next question.
“Do you think,” said Webster, picking his words carefully, “that there might be a connection between the death of Cyrus Mehr and this story?”
Qazai sat straighter in his chair, and when he spoke he was emphatic. “No. I don’t.”
Timur looked from his father to Webster and back again.
Webster went on. “I was wondering… perhaps there’s something going on here we don’t fully understand. Maybe someone thinks he was involved in smuggling for the same reason someone thinks you were.”
Qazai shook his head. “No. No. I don’t believe that’s what happened.”
“Of course, it’s also possible that when he died, that somehow contributed to the story. Or triggered it.”
“Mr. Webster, this is not a useful line of inquiry. We should move on.” His jaw had moved forward slightly, as if he were clenching his teeth. Webster watched him, fascinated.
“But if he was smuggling, he’d be smuggling for you. People might make that assumption. Isn’t it possible that’s how the rumor about you started?”
Qazai leaned forward and pointed at Webster across the desk. His voice was level and hard. “All right. Enough. You’re being paid to clear my name. Not to investigate the murder of my friend. Nor, for that matter, to phone up his widow and harass her.”
That shouldn’t have been a surprise, but it was. As it had been a mistake. But Webster persisted, only briefly thrown and encouraged by Qazai’s vehemence.
“The story of his death doesn’t make sense.”
Qazai’s face became set, stony. “Listen to me, Mr. Webster. You are an investigator. You want to know things. I understand this. But some things we cannot understand, sitting here, rational people, in this most beautiful place. The men who rule Iran are not like us. They deal in fear. And what they fear, they kill. That does not make sense. Not to us.” He gave Webster a moment to absorb the words. “My best friend in Tehran was a doctor. He fled too, to Paris. He was political. A braver man than me. A better man than me.” He paused. “His car blew up outside his apartment. In 1984. His wife and daughter saw it happen as they waved him to work that morning. At his funeral there were men we did not know, taking pictures at a distance.” He left a space, but Webster knew better than to fill it. “Six months later, another friend, who had been there, paying his respects, was shot in Vienna. Twice, through the head.” Another pause, his eyes not leaving Webster’s. “My father’s godson was shot in a restaurant in Hamburg. I knew two people who were killed in Istanbul. There are dozens more I didn’t personally know, and none of them, not one of them, makes sense. These people do not know sense. Only fear.”
Webster saw a new passion in his words, a rage that seemed to fill him.
“So do not look for sense. Cyrus died because they feared him. Heaven knows why.” He had finished, and looking down he rearranged some papers on the desk. Then he was holding Webster’s eye once more. “If I had wanted you to investigate his death, I would have asked.”
Webster wondered if he should just let it go. Perhaps Hammer was right: perhaps there was nothing very much wrong with Darius Qazai, or at least nothing obvious, and to insist on taking him apart piece by piece until every last bone was found to be present, every vein and artery in place, was an exercise in vanity and not in diligence. It wasn’t what they had been paid to do, and it didn’t make anyone happier, or wiser, or better, least of all Webster himself. But he was too stubborn to stop, and too intrigued by the raw spot he had exposed.
“If there’s a link, that’s part of our job.” He held Qazai’s eye. “There’s a lot going on. I’m wondering whether I should investigate what happened to Parviz last week.”
Qazai looked at Timur, turned back to Webster, and closed his eyes. When he opened them again he had collected himself.
“I appreciate, Mr. Webster, that your job requires you to see the world as interconnected. Everything has a cause and an effect and you look for the cause. I understand that. But again, what happened last week is an unpleasant, personal matter and not your business.”
Webster turned to Timur. “You told your father what happened? The whole thing?”
Timur nodded. He had his legs crossed away from them both and looked like he didn’t want to be drawn in. “Of course.”
“You still think the motive was money?”
“Yes,” said Timur. “I do.”
“Of course it was money,” said Qazai. “Kidnappings happen every day in that place. That is what happens when you have billionaires and slaves living side by side. The sooner Timur can move to London, the better. Which is why, Mr. Webster, we need you to finish your work. These are distractions.”
Given another three or four questions along these lines Webster had the impression he might goad Qazai into becoming truly angry, but although this was tempting in its own right he saw that it served no one’s purpose—not Ike’s, not his own. He had learned something, and that was enough.
“All right. But if I were your adviser, and not your investigator, I’d say that you should have a good think about who your enemies might be.”
An unconvinced smile flashed on Qazai’s face. “Thank you, Mr. Webster. I will. We should all do that from time to time.” He sat back, finding his composure. “Good. That was a useful session.”
He stood, and came around from his side of the desk. To complete the reconstruction of his familiar, easy self, he put his hand on Timur’s shoulder and smiled. In that moment of stiff contact Webster thought of his own relationship with Danieclass="underline" Had Qazai once been free to play with Timur, to whirl him around, to throw him in the air? Had they always been this reserved, or had they stiffened over the years? Curiously, the effect was to make Timur, eager for approval, desperate not to disappoint, seem more like a child, and despite his fine words about giving his son his chance this was exactly what Qazai wanted. All afternoon he had led, and Timur had merely watched.
BY ELEVEN, dinner had finished, the diners had gone their separate ways and Webster, relieved that the day was over, was walking on the lowest terrace and smoking a cigarette. The lake breeze was fresh, the sky free of cloud, the stars close, and from the newly watered flowerbeds rose the rich, cool smell of damp earth. He found a bench and watched the black stillness of the lake and the clustered lights beyond.
Dinner had been easier than lunch. Senechal had arrived from London just as they were sitting down, and his cold presence had made the situation somehow less intimate, as if Qazai was now protected again and not available for taunting—a corporate rather than a family gathering, throughout which Ava had been polite but spirited, Timur agreeable, Qazai quietly imperious.
Webster gave thanks for his own family’s simplicity. His parents were still married, still seemed happy, had never filed vicious claims and accusations against each other. They had never directed him or been disappointed by the directions he had taken. His inheritance would be modest in financial terms but rich in love, wisdom, a certain clarity in thinking about priorities, the only burden a duty to live up to their example.