His coffee, when it came, was good. As he drank he watched the lawyer and tried to imagine the array of secrets stored up within him. Were they simply dry, legalistic, of little interest to anyone but himself and his client, the papery trappings of mortgages, incorporations, transactions and financings, impenetrable only by virtue of their complexity? Or in among them were there dark stories that explained Qazai and threatened to undo him?
Senechal closed his document and spoke, breaking Webster’s sleepy reverie and making him start.
“I understand you had a useful session with Mr. Qazai.”
Webster was amused by the lack of small talk, and grateful for it. “Yes, thank you. We’re getting there.”
Senechal paused for a second. He had an unsettling habit of leaving a short delay before he spoke, as if calculating precisely how to couch what he needed to say in the most efficient and anonymous terms, his gaze blank and always steady. “When do you think you will be finished?”
“Two weeks. Three. It depends how neatly everything stacks up.”
The idiom seemed to puzzle Senechal; he frowned, then let it go.
“The first draft of the report—send it to me. I will respond.”
“Of course.”
“Mr. Webster, I think you understand how important it is that this case is successful.”
Webster looked up. “I have some idea. But I don’t decide whether it’s successful or not.”
Senechal frowned again, the merest movement of his brow.
“I can only report what I find,” said Webster in response.
“I appreciate that,” Senechal said, placing his cup on its saucer with great care and considering it for a moment before looking up and going on. “But the presentation is important too. The order of items. The level of detail. It is difficult for you to be completely neutral.”
“Of course. You have to trust us.”
Senechal smiled blankly. “And we do. We appreciate your work, Mr. Webster. If you complete the project to our satisfaction we would be happy to show that appreciation.”
Webster frowned now. “What do you mean?”
“Only that we hope your good work will not go unrewarded.”
“You’re offering me a bribe?”
“Of course not.”
“So when I write this conversation up in my report you won’t mind?”
Senechal’s expression didn’t change. “I’m not sure what you think you heard, Mr. Webster. I was merely discussing our wishes for the project.”
Webster held his gray, cold eye. He had never been offered a bribe before. He wondered how much he was worth.
If he played along, of course, he could find out, and a proven bribe would be enough to walk away from the case and leave this unhealthy pair to their problems. But he found himself too furious for games, and strangely riled by the prospect of his own corruption even while he knew it wasn’t real and wouldn’t happen. And besides, he had no desire to finish this now. Not when he was about to be proved right.
“I know what I heard,” he said at last. “You hired us for our integrity. That’s what you’ll get.”
If Senechal detected the trace of threat he didn’t show it. He took the napkin from his lap, folded it neatly into two and then four, and placed it on the table.
“I am delighted to hear it.” He stood. “Thank you, Mr. Webster. I look forward to the report.” And with that, taking his document, he left, floating across the floor on his light, even steps.
AT LINATE WEBSTER WAITED in a single, snaking queue to take off his shoes and his belt and have his bag X-rayed, absently watching his fellow travelers with their refined traveling gear: suitcases obediently to heel, laptops held close, shoes ready to be slipped off in an easy motion. Like everyone else he checked his BlackBerry aimlessly, head bowed.
He should have taken the train. Overnight to Paris, the window open all the way, in his own cabin, on his own time; dinner in the dining car and a cigarette leaning out into the night somewhere around Lyon. A sentimental notion, attractive because it allowed him to indulge the fantasy that his life was his own.
As he untied his laces and unbuckled his belt he pondered the morning’s conversation. Would Senechal have made the same suggestion, as subtle as a whisper, to anyone? Or was there something that made him seem a susceptible bribee? Something equivocal, biddable? Would Senechal, for instance, have made it to Hammer? Had he already?
He shook that thought from his mind. No one would try to bribe Ike. You’d have to be dimwitted to mistake that keen edge for greed. No, these were the wrong questions. The only one that mattered was whether to tell Ike what had happened. He would stop the case if he knew, and Webster could then wash his hands at last of these puzzling and unsavory people—and start looking for the next client, who might be better or who might be worse, but who was unlikely to have that noxious mixture of arrogance and threat that was shot through the Qazais.
He cleared security without a beep, collected his clothes and his bag, moved aside to put on his shoes and jacket and made his way to the passport queue. He would like to be rid of them, that was clear, but at the same time he wasn’t ready to let them go. For the sake of Ava, and Timur, and most importantly Parviz, he told himself, he shouldn’t stop until he had worked out what was at the dark center of Qazai.
From his glass booth an immigration officer signaled that he should step forward. Webster handed across his passport, old now and full of stamps, the gold lettering on the cover worn away, and watched the officer open it to the back page, tap at his keyboard, inspect the photograph, glance up at him and then study his computer screen. He always wondered what it said on his file, a universal curiosity perhaps: he had Russian clients who were forever asking him to find out why they were stopped for questioning when they came west, a hopeless task. The officer tapped some more, picked up his phone, leafed through the passport as he said a few words and then hung up.
“What are you doing in Milano?” he asked, still looking down.
“Business,” said Webster. “I came to see a client.”
The officer nodded slowly to himself and typed something into his computer, taking his time. Webster heard footsteps behind him and two men appeared at his shoulder, both in the uniform of the Polizia di Stato. One went to talk to his colleague in the booth, the other stayed back.
After a moment’s grave conversation the first officer came out and nodded to his colleague, who took Webster by the elbow and told him that he would have to follow him and answer some questions.
The two men led Webster past shops and sandwich bars to an unmarked gray door set in a long gray wall. Behind it was a white room, well-lit from two fluorescent strips that hung from the ceiling, its floor tiled with worn carpet, its only furniture a glass table with a metal-framed chair either side of it. He was told that he should sit and that someone would be with him soon. One officer left and the other stayed, standing with his back to the wall by the door. Webster watched him for a moment and decided that his rigid bearing and serious gaze were there to suggest that he wouldn’t answer questions if asked, so taking his phone from his coat he began to type a short message to Ike, letting him know where he was and why he might be late.