The Jackal's Share

Начало книги

FOR SOMEBODY SO ELEGANT, in such harmony with the world, Darius Qazai wasn’t difficult to spot. In a slow, stately progress he made his way through the church, shaking hands, stooping to offer his condolences, every word heartfelt, every gesture correct, until one by one the congregation settled and Qazai, his face set between solemnity and quiet grief, took his seat in the first pew. It was an immaculate performance and Webster, watching closely from the back, wondered whether it was sincere or merely smooth, and whether he really welcomed the opportunity to find out. In the still air around them Bach softly rose and fell.

A somber rumble as everyone stood, then a pair of hymns: “The King of Love My Shepherd Is,” “Thine Be the Glory.” Webster sang serviceably now, if a little low, but the church was full and his uneven bass lost inside the swell of sound; above the multitude soared the pure, clear chords of the choir, and beside him he could just make out Hammer’s reedy tenor. He sang, paying little heed to the familiar words, and as he looked about him at the inclined heads, dappled with evening light from the stained glass, wondered who all the disparate mourners were. Near Qazai stood the dead man’s clients, glossed with the unmistakable sheen of the truly rich: light tans, pristine shirt collars, distant gazes, discreet black hats on the women’s heads; across the aisle, the dead man’s family, his widow, his two teenage sons, all in black; and the rest—an irregular group of English, Americans and Iranians in tweed jackets and patterned shawls and corduroy suits, a little unpressed—these, Webster guessed, were antiques people. There must have been three hundred mourners altogether.

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