He drank deeply from the water bottle, took a bent cigarette from the crumpled pack in his pocket, and lit it.
It made him feel no better. His head ached as it was, and the smoke tasted strange in his throat, acrid and stale. But he continued with it nevertheless, perhaps because it was the only action he could take, and soon the white cell hung with a soft haze and a tired, friendly smell. It was the smell of his life before Ikertu, before children—before Elsa, even, of a time when he was alone, as he was alone again now, just him and the smoke. He pictured his house, curtains and blinds drawn, everyone in their beds, a single light on outside the children’s room, and for the first time felt anguish at the thought he might never be there again, and a greater anguish that he had chosen to desert them.
He was watching the smoke rise off the ember in a thin, twirling line when the lock turned and the door opened. Qazai was there. He stood in the doorway, and when his eyes had adjusted to the light simply studied Webster for what seemed a long time. It was a strange look: solemn, pained, even curious. Thoughtful, as if a long way behind it some delicate matter was being decided. Above all, though, it was not as it had been; the authority had gone from it. It made him appear old, and uncertain, and it suddenly struck Webster that it was meant to communicate something to him. But what it was, he couldn’t catch.
Senechal was behind him, and as if only then becoming conscious of his presence Qazai glanced over his shoulder, raised an eyebrow wearily, and walked slowly around the desk. There was a hint of resentment in the gesture that Webster noticed, and instinctively felt he might exploit.
“So you are here,” said Webster, taking a last pull on the cigarette. “I thought you might be.”
Qazai didn’t reply. He sat on the chair, Senechal standing by him, like his nurse. He was exhausted; his shoulders slumped; that athletic energy that had flowed through him at their first meeting seemed all spent. But he held Webster’s eye, and drew himself up as best he could before speaking.
“I understand that you’re still trying to threaten me.”
Webster dropped his cigarette on the floor and put it out with his foot.
“That’s a bit rich, don’t you think?”
“I’m not threatening you.”
“Ten minutes ago your kept ghoul told me that he was terribly sorry but I was about to be killed.”
“That’s not me.”
“It’s not you. Of course.” Webster nodded. “It’s just the company you keep.” He reached for his cigarettes and pulled another delicately from the pack. “You keep very bad company. Starting with him. Tell him to go.” He looked up. “Leave the fucking room. Go.” He stared hard at Senechal. “Go on. I don’t know which of you is the monkey anymore but I want to talk to him. Alone.” Neither man said anything. “I mean it.”
“I will be staying with my client,” Senechal said at last.
“Whatever he is to you, he’s not your client. We all know that.” He looked at Qazai. “If I’m going to die I want to spend my last minutes with the living. Tell him to go.”
Qazai breathed in deeply through his nose, made a decision and let the breath out. “Yves. Leave us.”
Senechal frowned—it was the most emotion Webster had seen him show—and with a stiff nod walked across the room and knocked on the door, which was opened and locked behind him in a moment.
Webster lit the cigarette. Bits of tobacco stuck to his lip and he pinched them off with his thumb. Qazai, across the desk, watched him charily.
“What did you mean?” he said. “That I’m not his client.”
Webster smiled and shook his head, exhaling smoke. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t trust him with my home address, but you tell him everything. What does he do for you? Was it your idea to pick over my past, or his? Who talked to the Italians? Who suggested you buy me off? Why is he in here on their behalf? Whoever the fuck they are.” He took another drag. “Who’s in charge? That’s the question. I’ve been trying to decide. Is he trying to help you out of this mess or is he out there right now selling what he knows? I would be. Christ knows.”
Qazai looked at him steadily, but not with confidence, and for a minute neither said anything.
“So you have a buyer?” Webster broke the silence.
“I’m selling it all.”
Webster raised an eyebrow.
“To the Americans,” said Qazai. “I have no choice. It’s the end.”
Webster laughed, and his throat hurt as he did. He took another drink from the bottle and tried to understand. “So if it’s all theirs they don’t care about you. You won’t be seen together. You’ll be gone. That’s why you don’t need me.” He shook his head. “Why the fuck didn’t you just do that in the first place?”
Qazai pushed his chair back and made to stand up, looking at Webster with a strange sadness in his eyes.
“The thing is,” said Webster, “when Ike sends my report out to the Wall Street Journal in about…” he checked his watch, “in about three hours, no one’s going to be buying anything off you.”
“There’s no report. Hammer doesn’t even know you’re here.”
“Of course he does.”
“Then why did you book your flight yourself?”
To that Webster didn’t have a response. So they had known he was coming.
Qazai watched him, enjoying his unease. “After all this time, Mr. Webster, you don’t know anything. You have no idea who these people are.”
“Tell me.”
Qazai just shook his head.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Webster. “I know what they do.” He turned his head to exhale. “Until a few hours ago, I really wanted to know what trouble you’d got yourself into. I really did. And now, I couldn’t care less. Because I can’t help but think that whatever happens to me, you’re fucked too.”
Qazai set his jaw. “I’m afraid only one of us is fucked.” The word sounded odd on his lips.
Webster laughed, a dry cracked laugh.
“You’re serious? No, I see. They can’t break Darius Qazai. You’re too big. You’re a great man. Is that it?” Webster paused and the two looked at each other, Qazai’s eyes dull and uncertain. Webster leaned forward. “Listen. You can’t hold it together anymore. Killing Timur—they did kill Timur, didn’t they?—that wasn’t a threat, it was just the beginning. How much do you owe?”
Qazai said nothing.
“So it is money. And when you sell the company and you pay them off, you think they’ll walk away? Given how much you know?”
“You don’t know them.”
“You’re a dead man whatever happens.”
Qazai scratched his jaw, his mind working. “You’re not giving me much incentive to save you.”
“You can do that? You’re still in charge?” He laughed. The room was now hazy with smoke. “What’s funny about this is that I’m the only hope you’ve got.”
Qazai swallowed. “Go on.”
“Get us back to England, and I’m in the same boat as you. A pair of loose ends. Your friends don’t seem like the sort to forget.” A pause. “I know how to neutralize them.”
“Tell me.”
“When we’re in England.”
Qazai held Webster’s eye for a moment until an understanding had passed between them, then reached into the pocket of his jacket and brought out a lacquered black pen, an incongruously perfect thing, and a business card. “I’ll tell my friends, as you call them, about the report.” He uncapped the pen and wrote as he talked, bending over the desk. “They may choose to believe you. They may not.”
He handed the card to Webster. Darius Qazai, it said, Chairman and Chief Executive, Tabriz Asset Management. On its reverse, in black capitals, were four words: “YOU HAVE A DEAL.”