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

had always been one for subtlety, looking dowdy among what some described as ‘the Chavistanis’. She hated the way people dressed themselves in their money. The watch told him he was late the way any other watch would have done, but this one did it while reminding him of his sister, her rebellion and her unconditional love for him.

Ordinarily, tardiness wouldn’t have bothered him, but today was different. Maria would not forgive him if anything went wrong tomorrow and he knew he’d never hear the end of it. He still couldn’t believe his young sister was about to become someone’s wife. She was so disorganised and frazzled in her thoughts, it astounded him that she was about to build a life apart from her family. He would miss her more than he could say. The accident had brought them closer, as had Jia’s departure. It had been so sudden that Benyamin had been lost in the haze of it.

She was coming back, Jia, his older sister, his protector, his adviser, the one who had abandoned him. Her presence in the Khan household had made it a warm place, whether it was by her singing of Hindi songs into an old brush, smuggling pizzas into his room at midnight, telling him ghost stories on the steps or doing hilarious impressions of their father’s friends. She had been his partner in crime, his cool big sister and his best friend. Losing her had been a lot for a ten-year-old to bear, and he had never forgiven her.

Not a day went by when he didn’t wish things were different, that the accident hadn’t happened, that his brother Zan was still alive and that Jia understood their father. But wishing didn’t bring change and it never would. Life was about doing not dreaming.

The untested bravado of a twenty-five-year-old meant it was rare for Benyamin to be afraid, but there was something about this weekend that made him nervous. He was the son of Akbar Khan, and as such he believed that fear should fear him, not the other way around. But this would be the first time the Khan family were together in over a decade. He hoped that the past would stay buried and not raise its bloody head.

He turned his mind back to the job at hand and to the pimp renting this ‘bitch pitch’, who was leaning against a wall and carefully counting out a wad of cash. It was unusual for the son of Akbar Khan to do the ‘milk run’, but he wanted to make sure that everything was ticking over smoothly. His father would have enough to deal with over the next few days.

‘Business is good, bro,’ said Khalid, when Benyamin asked him. ‘Since your dad’s been running things all our girls are clean. Tested an’ that. We keep a close eye on ’em, y’know. And kasmai these gorai, bro, they do like a bit of exotica.’ The pimp was in good spirits as he flicked away his cigarette butt and passed the money to Benyamin through the car window. ‘Going for a shisha after work and then watching the big fight. Our boy Amir Khan is up. You wanna join us an’ that?’

Benyamin took the cash and shook Khalid’s hand. ‘I’m afraid I’m busy. You understand?’ He nodded his head once, the way his father did when he was implying trust. Business of this kind was built on trust and on distance. It was one of the many things he’d learnt over the last few years. Akbar had wanted Benyamin, his youngest child, to experience the family business from the bottom up, to see it from every angle, in order to prepare him for what was to come. There was no room for fear and little forgiveness left in the bank of Khan. Not any more. There had been once, back when Akbar had planned to hand his empire over to his eldest son, Zan. But things hadn’t worked out as he’d hoped. He had outlived his son, and the daughter he’d primed for the business had proved herself obstinate.

And so the apprenticeship had fallen to Benyamin Khan. His being out on the streets was risky – the child of the Khan was rarely put in a place of high visibility. But he was being closely watched over by Bazigh Khan, Akbar’s younger brother and the most loyal of all the Khan’s men. He would keep him safe and out of trouble.

Benyamin was only to collect from certain streets but the responsibility gave him a sense of pride. Unknown to him, Bazigh Khan had gone ahead and swept the area of anyone who might seek to implicate the Khan’s son in illegal activities.

Having inherited his family’s good looks, Benyamin was not easily missed. A chubby, waddling Pukhtun baby, his cheeks had been heavy with puppy fat, probably to protect the chiselled cheekbones and large eyes that emerged in adulthood. As with all Akbar’s children, people would often ask him about his origins. Greece was the most popular guess. Benyamin was young enough to still enjoy the game. He felt it set him apart from the average Asian kid. If there was one thing he didn’t want to be, it was like everyone else.

As Benyamin put the cash away, the pimp said to him, grinning, ‘I hear there’s gonna be a meeting soon, the Jirga getting together. Must be serious.’

Benyamin nodded, but added nothing more. It was time for him to leave. Khalid the pimp had forgotten that the code of the Jirga required silence as much as loyalty. One did not speak casually on the streets about the Khan and his ‘Jury’. Benyamin left saddened and burdened. A way would have to be found to reinforce the old lesson and make sure Khalid never made that mistake again.

CHAPTER 7

The Rolls-Royce purred through the broad streets of Knightsbridge and Belgravia, its navigation system telling the driver that he was almost at his destination. He was on schedule,