WEBSTER’S GRANDFATHER HAD DIED when he was nine. For a year and a day his grandmother, a Catholic, had worn black: entirely at first, and slowly introducing muted colors as time passed. Fascinated by the process, he had asked her why she did it, and she had told him that his grandfather would want to know that she was missing him, and this was her way of showing that she did. He would see the black and know.
The day after the funeral, walking to Mount Street with Hammer at his side, unity restored, Webster thought this was no way to mourn, with meetings and negotiations and business. What it said about Qazai that he should persist in this way he didn’t know. Was it heartlessness or doggedness? Or simple desperation? A week ago that would have been one of the questions that Webster would have liked answered above all, but now he couldn’t bring himself to care. What he had seen yesterday had shown him that his client, proud and tricky and even poisonous as he might be, was still a human being and therefore worthy of some charity. And some humility: who was Webster, after all, to take it upon himself to judge this man?
It had rained overnight, enough to freshen the air a little but not enough to wash away the heat, and even at ten it was uncomfortably warm. Mayfair woke up later than other parts of London and was still quiet. So was Hammer, by his standards. He was letting Webster know that his mood hadn’t softened nor his ultimatum changed just because Timur had died, and Webster felt a certain relief that for once he wasn’t going to have to fight him.
At the Qazai house they were shown by the butler, with greater than usual solemnity, into the sitting room, whose many treasures were showing only dimly through the gloom. The curtains were drawn and the only light came from four large, fabric-shaded lamps stationed around the walls. The air was stale and warm and smelled of must.
Qazai and Senechal rose from their sofa, offered their hands to shake and then gestured that everybody should sit. No words were spoken. Webster kept his eyes on Qazai, who sat back with his hands neatly on his thighs, staring down at a fixed point ahead of him, the skin under his eyes purple and black like a bruise. Next to him, Senechal looked full of life. It was he who began.
“Gentlemen. I do not want to keep Mr. Qazai any longer than is necessary. So I will come straight to the point. You have had two months and hundreds of thousands of pounds. We need our report. Right now.”
For once Webster didn’t feel the urge to respond. He let Hammer reply.
“We understand. I have a proposal to make that I think will suit everybody.” Senechal nodded that he should proceed; Qazai didn’t lift his eyes. “We’re in a position to write the report. I think you’ll be happy with it. It may not be complete but it should serve your purpose.”
“What do you mean, not complete?”
“Philosophically speaking, these things are never complete. We could go on looking forever.”
“You’ve looked long enough.”
“We feel the same way.”
“What if we do not like your report?”
Hammer paused for a moment, his eyes on Senechal’s. “Then I’m afraid you can lump it. We will only be writing one report on this case.”
Senechal’s expression didn’t change but he stiffened. “That is not what we discussed.”
“Mr. Senechal, you haven’t been the easiest of clients. You haven’t given us all the information we asked for. You offered one of my people a bribe. And some of what we’ve found smells off.” He waited for Senechal’s reaction but there was none. Either he had complete mastery of his emotions or he simply didn’t have any. “For those reasons, you don’t get full marks. The sculpture story we know is nonsense, and we’ll say so. That’ll be the focus. But we can’t say you’re saintly. Because you’re not.”
Senechal drew himself up still further but before he could reply Qazai raised a finger and spoke, and though his voice was cracked it had a cold authority that filled the room.
“When I hired you,” his eyes were fixed on Hammer’s, “I didn’t know that the man you would assign to us—to a job of great delicacy—was a crude hack of low morals who thinks nothing of breaking into offices and bugging people’s phones.” Webster started to respond, but Hammer raised his hand and he kept himself in check. “But now I do, through good fortune, if you can call it that. So here is what I propose. You remove this man from the case. Then you yourself or some more reputable colleague writes a report to our specifications. If you do these things, I will not tell the world that Ikertu employs cheap crooks. And I will not encourage the Italian police to pursue their investigation.”
Webster’s vision seemed to cloud with red; he closed his eyes and tried to shake it away. When he opened them Qazai was staring at him in unblinking challenge, his tired eyes wide. Hammer was saying something but Webster was barely conscious of it and talked across him.
“So what’s the going rate?” he said. “For an Italian policeman? More than you were going to give me? Or does he work it out for you? So that you don’t have to think about it.” He pointed at Senechal but kept his eyes on Qazai. “Tell me. How much was Timur worth? How much did you pay him to live in the desert sitting on your lies? I hope it was a lot. Because it strikes me he gave you his life twice over.”
“Ben, that’s enough.” Hammer brought his arm up to restrain Webster, who was getting out of his seat.
But Qazai hadn’t moved. He sat perfectly still, looking at Webster, his own rage contained. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that in one way or another, he died because of you.”
Qazai pulled himself to the edge of the chair and pointed a finger at Webster, his words slow and filled with the certainty of the inspired.
“Mr. Webster, I have provided for my family for over thirty years. I am a constant man. But you, you have some resentment I do not understand. Perhaps you measure yourself against other men and find yourself wanting. So you do reckless things. You flirt with criminals, with prison. You are vain and weak. You even flirt with my daughter.” The words hit Webster with the force of some shameful but indistinct recognition, like a drunken impropriety remembered the next day. He shook his head and started to speak. “No,” said Qazai, “you will listen to me. Go back to your wife. Go back to your family. And when you have committed yourself to them, when you are a whole man, then we can talk about me. And my son.”
Qazai stood up and looked at Hammer. “In the meantime, I want my report. Tomorrow.”
Webster was standing too now, reaching for something to say or do that would settle this for good, but he was thrown, and nothing came. All he could do was listen impotently to Hammer.
“You’ll have it in a week.”
“Tomorrow. Or I go to the papers.”
“In one week. Or on the front of tomorrow’s FT will be a big fat story about how no one wants to buy your company because you might be an art thief. And whatever you’ve started in Italy needs to stop or I’ll leak that too.”
“I haven’t started anything, Mr. Hammer.”
“Well you can stop it anyway.”
Qazai straightened himself. He was almost a head taller than Hammer and he did his best to look down on him from the greatest possible height.
“I’m beginning to understand the ethics of your industry, Mr. Hammer.”
Hammer returned his gaze, a trace of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “And I yours.”
OUTSIDE, Mount Street was reassuringly sane. The sun shone, taxis rolled past, people strolled about. Webster felt like he had been in some infernal show, a diabolical entertainment, and even though he had been released into the light his thoughts still whirled in confusion.