The Khan by Saima Mir (best thriller novels of all time .txt) 📗

was acutely aware of the baggage he had stuffed away. He hadn’t made peace with ghosts of the past and he hadn’t sorted and sifted through old memories to categorise and make sense of them. No, he had compartmentalised his life, he had held on to his son, and together they had survived.

But this last year, Ahad’s migraines had become more and more frequent, as had his questions. The consultant had said that stress was a possible trigger and suggested it was exam pressure, but deep down, Elyas knew the truth. He’d been running from it long enough. And when the exams were over and the migraines persisted, that confirmed it. Ahad needed to see Jia and place his unanswered questions before her.

Elyas sat down, overwhelmed by the reality of the journey he was about to take his son on. Much had happened since he was last in the hills and valleys of Yorkshire. The boy who once greeted him in the mirror was now a man with flecks of grey scattered through his black hair. That boy had wanted to see the world and make it his. This man wanted to unsee it. The monsters he now knew lived inside people, those who shunned their ordinary lives to run amok, making those around them question everything they held dear – he wanted to purge them from his mind and start over.

He picked up the handwritten letter that had arrived a few weeks ago. The flourish of real ink on Conqueror paper, a rare sight in today’s digital world, was his father-in-law’s penmanship, unmistakeable and impeccable. The man had not learnt to read until his twenties, and pride had driven him to overcome and surpass the challenge.

It came with a wedding invitation, and was brief.

Elyas jaan,

You must come and see me.

Bring my grandson. It is time.

Regards,

Akbar Khan

Elyas stared at his father-in-law’s succinct words. As he turned the paper over in his hand, he wondered if the timing of the letter was a coincidence. Akbar Khan knew of Ahad’s troubled mind and the migraines that came as a result. Since leaving his grandson in Elyas’s care, he had corresponded regularly with Elyas. Was he responsible for the job offer that was taking them back to the city where it all began? He had always been well connected, of course. Elyas wondered how far those connections now extended. Was it paranoia to suspect a link between the timing of the job and the letter, or was it journalistic instinct? Hard news had made him cynical. It had taught him that even the most democratic of countries, and the whitest of white establishments, called on the criminal fraternity occasionally. And vice versa.

The knot in his stomach tightened as he thought of Jia. He knew it wasn’t the wisest decision to accept his father-in-law’s invitation, he knew nothing good would come of it, but he had never been able to resist temptation when it came to her. He was curious. What was she like now? What kind of woman had she become? Did she ever think of him?

Then he put these thoughts aside and considered the other, more likely option: the two events were unconnected and the timing was merely coincidental. He had landed the job on merit. And Akbar Khan had finally decided it was time to meet his grandson. And maybe he was right. Maybe it was time to sew up old wounds.

CHAPTER 6

Benyamin Khan watched from his car as the woman in the burqa left with the punter. He had been raised in the family business and understood its workings better than most, but the mind of these men was lost on him. He got that the punters had sexual proclivities they could not satisfy elsewhere, but not that someone might be willing to sell their sister, girlfriend or even mother to meet the needs of those people. And while he’d been raised in a world of grey areas, there were still lines of morality whose blurring made his stomach churn, and he knew his revulsion made him better than these men.

‘A Pukhtun’s woman is his honour,’ his father had told him. ‘Her seating place is in the heart. If you want to succeed in life, remember this: hear and heed your sisters and your mother, and in time your own wife. It is their birthright to speak, and it is your duty to listen. Women are like prisoners in our hands because they are physically weaker than men, but we must not abuse that power. A society that dishonours its women dishonours itself. Remember that; that is how He will judge us,’ he had said, pointing to the sky.

‘Then why do we take money from these men and their women, Baba?’

‘Man is neither good nor bad, Benyamin Khan. It is the deeds that are thus divided. And money is money, my son; it is not honourable or dishonourable, it is just necessary. That said, the world confers honour on the man who holds it. These men will whore their women without regard whether we allow them or not. By taking them under our wing we regulate things, make sure of the girls’ safety. In a way, it is an act of charity on our part.’ Benyamin had nodded at his father’s words, taking them as others might take Quranic scripture.

Despite his youth, he understood the workings of the family business and that times of austerity meant turning one’s hand to all kinds of work. Men needed to eat, and women had families to feed.

And in the Khan house that meant hundreds of families. Especially this week, since there was a wedding. One that Benyamin was responsible for overseeing.

He pulled his cuff back and glanced at his watch. He wore the price of a house on his wrist, thanks to his sister Jia. She had sent it to him on his twenty-first birthday. The vintage Patek Philippe went unnoticed among the gold Rolex watches his friends wore. His older sister