The Jackal's Share by Christopher Morgan Jones Page A

whatever it wants. No one knows what it’s doing. Very low profile. But I found a claim in the high court from an investor trying to get his money back.”
    Webster looked puzzled. “I thought it was all Qazai’s money.”
    “Apparently not.”
    “Who was it?”
    “Some Swiss fund. It looks like another family office. The claim doesn’t give much away. They invested twenty-five million dollars in 2007 and wanted it back earlier this year. Qazai told them they couldn’t have it, that the fund was gated.”
    “This year?” said Hammer.
    Dobbs nodded.
    Webster looked at Hammer. “He told us he needed cash.”
    “He did,” said Hammer. “Do we know what happened?”
    “They settled last month,” Dobbs said.
    “Interesting,” said Hammer, with a slow, exaggerated nod to no one in particular. “Interesting.”
    Dobbs, finished, closed her folder, and Webster thanked her.
    “Dieter?”
    While Dobbs had been talking Dieter had been surreptitiously going through his own notes, getting himself prepared. With a glance at Hammer he looked down at them again and began.
    “Shokhor is not a prominent man. There is very little on him. There is almost nothing in the media.” He looked up. “I can go through the articles if you would like.”
    “Are they interesting?” asked Hammer.
    “Not really.”
    “Let’s get to the interesting stuff.”
    Dieter, abashed, turned his attention back to his notes.
    “I have found two things. One is an article in the
Paris Match
that had a picture of Ava Qazai, the daughter, at the same party as a Yusuf Shokhor, who appears to be Shokhor’s son. They were photographed together. They seemed to know each other quite well.”
    Hammer pushed his lip out. “Anything else?”
    “Well. I found no links between Shokhor and Cyrus Mehr, the dead man. But one of his old companies—Shokhor’s old companies—I found it in the Cyprus corporate registry. It was struck off in 2001, but I thought I recognized its office address. And when I checked it was the same as a Tabriz company. Tabriz Investments Cyprus Limited. That was dissolved in 2003, but for four years they were in the same office building.”
    “The same floor?” asked Hammer.
    “It didn’t specify the floor.”
    Hammer tapped out a tattoo on the table with his fingers. “Satisfactory. Definitely satisfactory.”
    Behind his beard Dieter blushed and Webster, pleased, brought the meeting to an end.
    He and Hammer stayed behind. Outside the sun was shining hard on Lincoln’s Inn and through the trees he could just make out groups of people eating their lunch on the grass.
    “Well?” said Hammer.
    “Why are you so hard on Dieter?”
    “That’s not hard. You’re too easy.”
    “I’m not sure he enjoys it.”
    “He’s not meant to. But he’ll be better for it.” Hammer finished shading in a long spiral, like a spring, that he had been drawing in his notebook. “When are you seeing Qazai?”
    “Tomorrow.”
    “What have you got?”
    “I’ve been trying to find the Swiss dealer. After the first Gulf War there was a guy in Zurich who was rumored to have returned some valuable piece to the Iraqis after it somehow came his way. There’s lots of chat about it on various blogs. I thought I might have a word with him.”
    “Go and see him.”
    “I might. I’m going to Dubai first. Visit Fletcher. See if Shokhor will grant us an audience.”
    Hammer threw his head back and gave a deep groan. “Oh God. Fletcher?”
    “You love Fletcher.”
    “I love Fletcher like a brother, but the two of you should not be left alone with this case.”
    “And I’m trying to find out how Mehr died.”
    “I thought we knew how he died.”
    “We know what the Iranian news agency said. Not much more.”
    “Is it relevant?”
    “Possibly not. Qazai gets accused of looting. So does Mehr, and dies for it. All in the space of a month. You tell me.”

5.
    O N THE LOW TABLE in front of Webster the sweetmeats were beginning to pile up.