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

their predicament too many times to believe it. She’d learnt to recognise it as a last-ditch attempt at bravado, one that rarely proved true.

But in this case it did, so it was lucky that Jia had been ready – although those who knew her well understood that luck had little to do with it. A seasoned barrister, Jia Khan prepared for her cases earlier than most. ‘Be twice as good as men and four times as good as white men.’ This had been the mantra of her mentor. She’d picked it up early on in her career and it had served her well. Shortcuts and fast tracks came with the culture she had inherited. Meticulous, methodical planning came gift-wrapped from the country she was born and educated in.

Pulling strings in law courts was not unheard of. Lawyers, barristers, legal attachés and judges were no strangers to nepotism, but for it to be this blatant had surprised even Jia Khan, and not much surprised her these days.

She saw her client climbing out of a supercar as she approached the building. She guessed that his cousin and benefactor, and the man responsible for arranging the early court date, was sitting in the driver’s seat, behind the blacked-out windows of the car. She’d met him briefly at a meeting. Her client tipped his head at her before heading to the back of the courthouse for a cigarette.

Jia took the stone steps to the front entrance. The security guard greeted her warmly, stepping up to lift her case on to the X-ray machine. She’d been here two weeks, during which time she had made it her business to get to know everyone who worked in the court. Learning about the people who oiled the machinery of the judicial system was part of her process.

‘How’s your wife today, John?’ she asked the guard.

He attempted a smile but quit, knowing that his tired eyes betrayed him. ‘The weekend was hard,’ he said.

Jia took a clean handkerchief from her bag. ‘You call me when you’re ready to take this to court,’ she said, handing it to him.

The guard wiped his eyes, reining in his emotions. Kindnesses were hard to come by in court, and he made a mental note of Jia Khan’s.

‘It’s your last day, then?’ he said. ‘Good luck.’

Jia thanked him, though she didn’t need the luck. She knew she had this. What the guard couldn’t know, however, was that she had no desire to win this case, not since Jimmy Khan had come to see her.

‘Why are you representing this guy, Sis?’ he had asked, his voice filled with emotion.

Khan was a title, a name given to rulers from China to Afghanistan and on through to Turkey; it belonged to the Tatars and the Mongols. It represented honour and valour, leadership. This Khan shared her surname but was not related to her by blood, so when he referred to her as ‘sister’ it was as a sign of respect. It had stopped her, that word ‘sis’. It was a term she had left behind in her past. This white world she inhabited felt no place for the ties and honour that came with simply calling someone ‘sister’. She had softened at its sound. Maybe it was because this was the first time her past had crossed her present; maybe it was because someone had traversed the north–south divide to ask for her help; or maybe it was simply a question of timing. Whatever it was, it triggered the domino effect that would change Jia Khan’s life and eventually take her home and into the arms of the Jirga.

Jimmy had taken his phone from his pocket and held it out to her, insisting she flick through his photographs. Images of his daughter filled the screen, a wide-smiling little girl, her first day at school, bike rides, Halloween costumes, pretty cakes with candles, laughing with her daddy, arms around her mummy, on and on, image after image until smiles turned to blank expressions, and blank expressions became a tiny child in a hospital bed, surrounded by machines. ‘That’s what he did. That’s what he does,’ Jimmy had said, and Jia had taken his hands in hers to stop them trembling.

The world no longer shocked her. She’d represented violent repeat offenders, rapists, and men and women who had committed heinous crimes. There were some who would say, being the daughter of Akbar Khan, she had even lived in the company of one. She knew monsters existed in the guise of friends and behind smiling faces.

But the photographs triggered something in her. Maybe it was because the little girl reminded her of her own sister, Maria. Or maybe it was because she knew that this kind of thing would never have happened ten years ago, that her father would have prevented it.

‘It’s bad, Sis. These bhain-chods have been tryin’a cause trouble. But…t’be honest, it’s been comin’ for a while. The Jirga han’t been listenin’ t’us younger folks, y’know? Times have changed an’ some kids have got degrees and shit. Our people, they never hurt children or women. Akbar Khan would never allow it. He would skin us alive before we even considered it, but these Eastern Europeans have no honour. Our children mean nothing to them, and our women are fair game, Sis. They have no izzat.’ His words had taken her by surprise; they were sharp and burning, like acid, and seeped into her skin. She had little to do with her father’s business, and hardly any knowledge of what it had become. According to Jimmy Khan, the edifice that was her father’s castle was crumbling, and with it, it seemed, was the protection it had afforded people who looked like her.

‘I was high when I got the call,’ Jimmy had said, the words reluctant to leave his lips, his shame evident. ‘I’m not high any more. I’m never high now.’ He’d shifted, his voice navigating emotion like a new driver, his accent thickening with every bend. ‘I’m