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

be hated, that his feelings towards her despite her absence were so strong, surprised her.

‘I get it now, though,’ he said.

‘Get what?’ She looked straight at him, into his face and the eyes that had once belonged to her brother.

‘That you had your reasons,’ he said. ‘I’m not like everyone else. But I am like you, and you’re like your dad. Other people don’t see the world like we do. We’re different.’

‘That’s a lot of introspection,’ said Jia.

Ahad shrugged. For a sixteen-year-old he was articulate in a way that most teenagers were not. Jia could see that private schooling had paid for itself.

‘I know you blame everyone for your brother’s death, including my dad. The thing is, he’s still hung up on you.’

He stopped, seeing her reaction. His words had removed her mask and behind it stood a woman who did not know she was loved. He took something from his back pocket and handed it to her. She found herself holding a single photo-booth picture. Black and white, curled at the corner, it was of her and Elyas pulling faces at the lens. There was a date on the back, the year slightly smudged, the words ‘Leeds Festival’ still readable. Looking at it reminded her that she had once been full of life and love and trust. But she only understood that now that she wasn’t.

‘I found it when we were packing. He keeps it with his passport, won’t travel without it.’ Ahad took the photograph back from Jia. ‘You think that because he wants you and ignores all the chaos that goes with you, he’s weak. That being cold and distant somehow makes you strong. But you need him to keep feeling something. Anything. Look, I know you’ve been sleeping with him. I know you come to our place late at night. I keep finding your fucking stuff. And I don’t care, OK? Just don’t hurt my dad. He deserves better than that.’

For the first time since his birth, Jia saw her son clearly for who he was. He had changed since she’d met him at her father’s funeral. He was poised on the steps of manhood. The family business and the fallout from Akbar Khan’s death had consumed her. She had compartmentalised the things she dealt with in depth and the things she dealt with superficially. She had been skating the surface of her relationship with Ahad but he had taken a pickaxe to the pond and doused her in icy water. She could see him now, clear as day, and sharply focused. He was the best of the Khans, and the worst, and despite all her efforts, she loved him.

The old feelings took her by surprise, and she pushed them down. The fear that had arrived with his birth was alive and well. And this time there was no stopping it.

CHAPTER 36

Idris left Jia at Barbican and walked down Silk Street, past the offices of the Magic Circle law firm where he’d started out. He was on his way to a friend’s law offices. The day had been productive, but being patronised by rich men who liked to shoot their mouths off exhausted him. He knew that the most powerful people spoke the least.

The legal side of the family business had been growing steadily, and Jia had decided it was time to consolidate the bedrock on which it was built – the drugs. Sales of illicit substances gave them more than a steady income stream; it also gave them a network that penetrated the highest echelons of society. It was essential to their long-term plans.

Edward Mason was an old friend from university, and he ran one of the world’s most successful boutique law firms. He and Idris had shared an apartment until Idris left to join Akbar Khan’s business. Edward went on to take over his father’s prestigious law firm. His client portfolio read like a who’s who of the Sunday Times Rich List, and while Idris’s did too, it was for very different reasons.

Their meeting was scheduled for the end of the day. As Idris walked through the quiet, suited-and-booted snobbery of St Paul’s he was glad he no longer worked in this area. There was a lot to be said for being around people who looked like him.

He arrived at the office on time and took a seat in the lobby, remembering how intimidated he had felt the first time he’d been here.

Idris knew he was a brilliant lawyer. He had an eye for fine details and loopholes that had saved clients millions and made them as much if not more. Working in London had been enjoyable at first; the bright lights and luxury had seduced him. But then time had taught him the truth: that success did not always come from hard work – it came from who you drank with, fucked, and your family name – and that power and money came to those who had wielded it since birth or were willing to sell the meat of their morals for it. It was they who controlled the political landscape, business and high society, and they who decided your fate.

And so he found himself falling out of love with the British justice system; it didn’t bring him the salvation he needed. He saw how easily the law was manipulated to control people, people who were like him in race and religion, the ones without connection and network. He listened as so-called educated types spoke of their attitudes, beginning sentences with phrases such as ‘I’m not racist but’ and ending them with ‘not you, of course, you’re different’.

He found himself floundering, unable to make sense of the path he’d chosen. He began staying home instead of partying with clients, which was bad for business. He dabbled in religion online, meeting like-minded types who claimed to be purer, more virtuous, than the corporate West; but when he dug a little deeper he found their ideologies twisted. He retreated further into himself.

In the end,