“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.
“I need a week,” he said.
“Would you listen to me?” said Hammer, his patience cracking.
Webster turned to him, his jaw set.
“You think I trust this guy?” said Hammer, irritated now. “I don’t trust any client who badgers me as much as he does. He has his grim little sidekick call me every hour. He’s a bully, at best. Did he set you up? I still don’t know, and neither do you. But did he try to bribe you? I believe you. That’s what his kind do. They buy people. They’d like to buy me.”
Webster made to say something but Hammer raised his hand. “Would you wait? Jesus. OK. So he’s in trouble. You’re in trouble. I don’t like to see you in trouble. It’s bad for everyone. It’s bad for business. I have no desire, believe me, to see your name in all the papers, because do you know what? Mine’ll be there too. Again.” He raised his eyebrows. “Understand? Good. So here’s a guy, tried to pay off one of my people, and I don’t want to give him what he wants. Part of me also thinks, if I’m going to hedge my bets, I should take you seriously about the business in Italy. If Qazai’s not involved, then it’ll make no difference, but if he is… Well, maybe it can help.”
Webster had no idea where this was leading.
“But most of all,” Hammer went on, “I don’t know what he’s going to do with my report. Heaven knows. He may not have lied to me about it but he sure as hell hasn’t told me the whole truth. If we give him a glowing testimonial he can wave it around for the rest of time to whoever he likes, and he doesn’t qualify for that. Do I want you to write a eulogy? No, I don’t. So here’s what we’re going to do.” He took a deep breath and pointed at Webster. “You… you are going to write a report—hear me out—that says yes, the sculpture story was a crock, but ultimately we can’t say whether he’s a good guy. We’re going to put a story in there, about a reliable source—this is you, by the way—who witnessed him offering a bribe.”
“That was Senechal.”
“Same fucking thing.” He shuddered. “He really is one of the weirdest sons of bitches… Anyway, we give Qazai that report, and tell him that if he doesn’t like it, it will be quietly leaked that Ikertu actually had grave reservations about his ethics. That in the end we were pulled off the case before we could dig too deep. They’ve asked for a meeting. We’ll tell them then.”
Webster ran his hands through his hair, clasped them behind his neck and stared up at the ceiling. He shut his eyes against the fluorescent light. If only this would work. Like all Ike’s plans it was simple, a little devious, and apparently sound. But he couldn’t believe that Qazai would simply stand down, just as he knew he couldn’t. They were racing against each other, and Ike was calling time. Neither would hear him. Neither would choose to.
“I don’t think I can write that.” He sat upright and looked Hammer in the eye.
“If you want to be shot of this mess, you will.”
“We shouldn’t write anything. Believe me. With what I know.”
“Like what? Just tell me, for Christ’s sake.”
“Fletcher called yesterday. The investigation into Mehr’s death has been officially closed.”
“So what? I’m amazed it was ever opened.”
“The order to shut it down came from someone inside the Quds force.”
“Which is?”
“It’s part of the Revolutionary Guard. Like the Iranian SS.”
“Jesus. This is why I need to separate you two.”
“And Mehr was laundering money.”
Hammer’s face became set. “How do you know that?”
“Give me a week. You’ll thank me.”
Hammer shook his head.
“Ben, you’ll write it now.” His voice was firm, but there was a softness in his eyes, a sadness. “This is not your company. If you can’t do it, you should think seriously about whether you’d be happier somewhere else. Or on your own, where you can play out these romances of yours without interference.” He gave Webster a last look, which seemed to say that he regretted his firmness but would be tested no further, and left the room, somehow older than he had entered it.
TWO AFTERNOONS A WEEK a young German woman called Silke picked up Daniel from nursery and Nancy from school, took them to the park for a while and then brought them home for their tea. Webster liked Silke, and so did the children, but a part of him wished that he could do her work himself.
Today he was later than he would have liked; he had spent the afternoon talking to Oliver, and now tea was finishing. Silke was washing up; Daniel was scraping around the inside of a clearly empty yogurt pot; Nancy had pushed hers aside and was bent over a notebook, writing something with a crayon, her face three inches from the page. When he opened the kitchen door she looked up, scrambled down from her chair and ran to him.
“Daddy!”
He crouched down, wrapped his arms around her and lifted her up in a tight hug, arching his back and kissing her face above his. She would be six in August but she was still so light, so finely built, so distinct from the mass and clamor of the world outside the door that her touch and her laugh pulled him from it instantly.
When Elsa returned home the children were in their pajamas watching television and Webster was cooking, slicing onions into thin half-rounds with a satisfyingly sharp knife. He turned from his work and kissed her.
“How was your day?”
“Fine,” she said. “Good. How’s Nancy?”
“She seems fine. No problems to report.”
“Did you ask her about Phoebe?”
Webster looked over his shoulder at his wife. She was going through that day’s mail; her hair was up and the skin on her neck golden from the sun, and her beauty, as it often did, gave him a shock of elation, or privilege, or something else that he couldn’t wholly recognize. He hated it when there was distance between them, and this only served to heighten it.
“We just talked through her day. She didn’t mention anything.”
Elsa nodded, not looking up. “What are we having?”
“Chicken.” Webster turned back to his cooking and a second later felt Elsa’s hand on the back of his neck.
“How was yours?”
“Good. I had a chat with Ike. Or he had a chat with me.” He slipped his arm around her waist and for a second they stood rather awkwardly together in front of the stove, like partners in a three-legged race, until he had to pull away to slide the onions into the pan.
Elsa let her hand linger on his back and then went to sit down at the table.
“Are you two OK now?” she said.
“So-so. Better.”
“What did he say?”
“He’s come up with a way out of the whole mess.”
“Will it work?”