“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 whole 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.