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

always a gentle soul,’ her mother replied, her voice quieter than usual. ‘Few people know that about him. But, then, he lived every day for his children…’ Her voice trailed off and Jia noticed her hands were shaking. She put her arms around her mother as Sanam Khan had done to her so many times throughout her childhood. She found herself swelling with tenderness and sadness in equal measure.

‘It’s OK, Mama, I’m here now,’ she whispered. She helped her mother down the stairs, Sanam Khan leaning heavily on her daughter. Jia reached for the bannister; the wedding flowers that were wrapped around it crumpled under her touch.

Sanam Khan took each step carefully, holding her daughter tight, afraid of what letting go would mean. Akbar Khan had left the house abruptly after the party ended. In his youth, he would have taken the stairs two by two to tell her he was leaving, but his knees weren’t what they used to be and so he had called up to her, saying he’d be back soon. But he wasn’t, and instead Bazigh Khan was here, his face solemn, his eyes pitch black. This house had seen some dark days and her God had demanded His dues. Something told her that there was worse still to come.

***

Standing by the fireplace, watching the embers rise and fall, Jia listened to Bazigh Khan, his words chilling her to the bone. She pulled her chador tight around her shoulders and up across the nape of her neck to warm herself. ‘Tell me again, from the beginning, Lala,’ she said.

But Bazigh Khan wasn’t prepared to repeat the story so soon. ‘The words almost took my life the first time they left my lips,’ he whispered. He had been standing since he arrived at the house. His legs were getting heavy but he dared not sit for fear of not rising again.

‘Baba, sit down,’ said Idris to his father.

‘How can I sit in the warmth while Akbar Khan lies on a cold slab?’ he said. He took a deep breath, letting the alien feelings that ran through him settle. He knew that other people, normal people, called them guilt and fear. But he had not been like everyone else for such a long time. He was Bazigh Khan, defender of the Khan: his job was to stand between death and his brother and snatch him back from the heavenly farishtay when they came, but he had failed. He had left his brother’s side and his duties early, and the angel of death had taken Akbar Khan.

He’d only gone because Akbar had pressed him. ‘The Khan should be guarded day and night. It is one of the unwritten rules of the family,’ he had reminded his brother. But shortly after, when Akbar Khan received the call about Benyamin, he’d ignored protocol and chosen to travel alone, telling his guards to meet him at the place where they’d heard Benyamin was being held.

When he didn’t arrive, the guards went looking for him. It didn’t take them long: a black Bentley with private plates is hard to miss on a winding country road. Less than two hours after saying goodnight to his brother, Bazigh Khan got a call telling him the Khan was dead.

‘It was not like him to take such a risk,’ said Bazigh Khan, shaking his head.

The moon had been full and fat that night, casting its light like little drops of honey on the leaves that filled out the lush hills and valleys. The guards had found the car parked in the layby of a nearby beauty spot, Akbar Khan beside it, still wearing the black shervani Maria had picked out for him for the wedding reception. A grey blanket had been draped over him, as if to stop him feeling the chill. The men had moved the blanket to find his face pressed deep into the soft brown mud, five bullets in the back of his head. He had been shot at close range. The black brocade hid the bloodstains well, and from a distance he looked like an old man who, feeling tired, had taken a nap next to his car after a picnic. The men who found him had fallen to their knees and wept like children at their father’s grave. They had lost their protector, and who now would answer to God on their behalf?

Idris stood by his father’s side, one hand on his shoulder. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror – his clothes crumpled, the red lines of sleep still evident in his eyes. This night had aged him. Standing by the window, his cousin Jia, however, looked fresher than her middle years. Her hair covered, her face washed clean, she seemed to have shed some of her burdens.

He remembered his Quran teacher telling him that believers are mirrors for each other, silently reflecting back their truth. Unwittingly, Jia Khan’s mirror cast light on the weaknesses of others. The strong among them took note; the weak, no doubt, blamed her for their own inadequacies. It was something he had observed at the wedding, but he realised now that she had always had this presence about her. She was clever and unflinching, and he saw in her a hierarchy of destructive potential and his place within it. Maybe it had seemed more pronounced tonight because she no longer cared about anything in this world – Zan’s death had seen to that – or maybe it was just the way she was made, only he hadn’t recognised it before. Whatever it was, Idris knew that if he could see it, then so could everyone else. There was no honour among thieves; the pack needed someone they feared to keep them in line. Idris wondered if Jia Khan could accept who she was before it was too late, and in so doing save the family before its demands destroyed her.

The call for Fajr interrupted his thoughts. It was followed by silence, and each