“There is nothing worse,” said Hammer, “than seeing someone die young.”
Senechal inclined his head in a sort of bow.
“Our meeting tomorrow…”
“We will cancel,” said Hammer. “Of course. Or rearrange.”
“No, no. That will not be necessary. No, the meeting will proceed as before.” Sensing their perplexity he went on. “I’m afraid that the death of Mr. Qazai does nothing to solve our problems. Indeed, it makes them more acute. When we see each other I shall want to know exactly where we are with the report, and when we can expect its release. In all honesty,” he attempted a smile, “I think we have waited long enough.”
Hammer checked Webster with a discreet motion of his hand. “I understand. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
But Webster had stopped concentrating. He was looking over Senechal’s shoulder at Ava, who had broken away from the people still milling around the entrance to the cemetery and was now walking toward them with purpose in her stride. As she drew near, Senechal followed Webster’s look and turned to find her already by him and fixing his eyes with her own, tired and red as they were. She glanced at Webster before addressing Senechal.
“Did you ask these two?” Senechal hesitated, apparently surprised, but not discomfited, by the question. “Did you?”
“Mr. Qazai asked me to invite them, miss.”
Ava looked from one face to another, furious, shaking her head. Glancing behind her she leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “This is not a business meeting. This is not a moneymaking exercise. Do you understand? For any of you. If he’s invited you to the wake, do the decent thing and go home. And you,” she turned to Senechal, jabbing a finger at him, “I don’t want you there. I don’t want you in my father’s home. Sucking the life from him. Doing whatever it is that you do.”
She glared at Senechal for a good two seconds, made to leave and then shook her head, as if remembering one last thing.
“Why did you come?” she said to Webster. “What is there to investigate here?”
“I came out of respect for your brother.”
“You didn’t know my brother.”
“Sadly, no.”
“I expected better from you.”
Her eyes were trying to impart some meaning that he couldn’t grasp; he felt baffled by her words, and awkward at having been singled out. Senechal, showing no signs of shock, looked intrigued, as if he had just heard something whose significance he couldn’t judge but whose importance he did not doubt.
TWO DAYS EARLIER, when Webster had first heard the news of Timur’s death, his response, after the shock, had been a strange, inappropriate lightness, almost peace: when he surveyed his thoughts the insistent muttering of his obsession had gone, and the switch was like moving from white noise to utter quiet. To continue his duel with Qazai now would be indecent and unnecessary. The man was already crushed, and though Webster wasn’t proud of it, beside his sympathy for Raisa, and her boys, and Ava, sat something like relief.
His first call that evening, after he had spoken to an excited Constance, had been to Ike. They talked about Qazai, and what this would mean for his plan, and agreed that without Timur it would at best have to be completely rethought; about Timur himself, the misfortune of being born the son of a rich man; and, with a certain amount of professional detachment, the difficulties of staging a car crash so that it might look like an accident. Hammer was of the opinion that it was more or less impossible, certainly a great deal harder than anyone might imagine, and Webster, though he disagreed, said little. Even before he had spoken to Constance, who was convinced, as ever, of a conspiracy (the car had been tampered with, no question; a mysterious Range Rover had been seen racing it shortly before the crash; the Dubai police were saying, unconvincingly, that crucial CCTV footage was missing) he couldn’t bring himself to believe that Timur’s death wasn’t the latest act in a sequence, a progression he could see but whose logic he couldn’t make out.
One day, perhaps, that story might be told, but he no longer had to be the one to tell it. In any case, he had nothing. Some strange payments through a dead man’s company and a hint of a conspiracy from, of all people, the Gulf’s most energetic conspiracy theorist.
“I’ve seen the light,” Webster said.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re right. We should end this.”
Hammer was quiet, waiting for more.
“As painlessly as possible. I’ve got no appetite left.”
Webster heard Hammer take in a long breath. “Good. It’s one thing you being ruled by your appetites. It’s another when we all are. Welcome back.”
His next call had been to Oliver, and just dialing the number had made him feel cleaner.
“Dean. It’s Ben.”
“This is late for you. Not for me, of course.”
“We need to stop work. Send me your bill. Make it healthy.”
There was a pause. “You’re sure you want to do that, Ben?”
“I’m sure. Something’s happened. The client’s had enough.”
“Well that’s a shame. It’s getting interesting.”
“The money?”
“That’s a long trail. Both ways. No. Something else.”
Webster paused, knowing he had to hear it.
“We got the bins again on Tuesday. You should see some of the stuff that guy throws away. I could live off it. Anyway, not much of a haul, except two sheets of flight log for his jet. First quarter of this year, but I managed to get the rest. It’s a Bombardier, super long range. Flies it to New York, Hong Kong, Dubai. Always those three places. And Milan. Once to St. Kitts for a week. But there are one or two odd ones in there. Caracas, for a day, back in November. Flies in in the morning, back overnight. Belgrade early last year. He spent the night there. And Tripoli, in January.”
“OK. So what else?”
“Ben, you need to be a little more patient.” Oliver paused, and Webster apologized. “I’ve also done his cell phone. Took a while because it’s in the company name. He uses it a lot. Anyway, I couldn’t see anything in there, but I fed it all into this program I’ve got that spots patterns in data, along with the flights, everything we know about transactions on Mehr’s accounts, the lot.”
“And?”
“And two or three days before each of those trips, he gets a call from the same number. A UK cell phone, pay-as-you-go. I checked with Vodafone. Set up with bogus details—false address, false name. But it only ever calls one number—Qazai’s. That’s it. It was set up two years ago, and in that time it’s made just six calls. One before each of the trips, and three others. But in the last fortnight, it’s made two more calls. Both to that number.”
That was interesting. If Webster had wanted to establish a secure means of talking to a source, this is how he would have done it, and if he had wanted to meet him quietly—somewhere no one was looking, where discretion was assured—those might be the places he would choose. Interesting, but tenuous, and redundant.
“Thanks, Dean. But send me the bill.”
“You’re serious?”
“I am.”
“What happened?”
“Qazai’s son died.”
“You have a very decent client,” said Dean, after a pause.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, some people would say this is the time to press on.”
“Some would,” said Webster.
And that had appeared to be that. So convinced was he that the world had changed that when he and Hammer had received a call from Qazai’s secretary asking them both to attend the funeral, Webster had seen it as confirmation, a formal offer of a truce.