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

‘I understand your desire to bring the family business out of the dark ages,’ said Nadeem. ‘And I’m with you on that, but I don’t understand how buying Nowak’s stash constitutes badal or solves our problem. They’re still going to be here, they’re still going to be demanding protection money from our people. They’ll just have our money and be stronger because of it.’

‘What are we missing, Jia?’ Malik said. ‘There’s obviously more to the plan than this. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here. So what is it?’

‘We do the switch,’ she said. ‘We give Nowak the cash. We send the shipment out, as I’ve explained to our own dealers.’ Her eyes were stone cold, her voice steady. ‘Then,’ she said, looking at her brother and pausing, ‘we kill them.’

There was a silence. Nadeem looked uncomfortable. ‘I know Idris is with you but I need time,’ he said. ‘You’re talking about us physically killing someone. Don’t get me wrong, Nowak needs to die. But taking a gun and pulling the trigger at point blank range? I don’t know if I could do that. The drugs, the rest of it, that’s easy, but this…the practicalities of it… I need time to get my head around it.’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Think it over. Make sure you can live with your actions. Because once we do this there’s no going back.’

CHAPTER 39

The last time Jia Khan slipped into his house in the dead of night, Elyas had told her it was over. ‘I can’t do this any more,’ he’d said.

‘Well then, stop taking my calls,’ she’d replied, a little too quickly. And he knew that would never happen. She would call, and his heart would race and his greed for her rise up, and he would have no choice but to answer and unlock the door and take her into his bed. His desire for her was gnawing at his senses, inhibiting pathways of reason and logic. She was calamitous but he was in love with her. When she said ‘stop taking my calls’, the thought that she might no longer come to him threatened to become real, and he knew that the need was as much his as hers.

But he had Ahad to consider. Watching her every move as he spoke, making sure she wasn’t spooked, he’d told her that, in that case, they must spend time out of the cover of darkness, doing the things that normal families do. She agreed, and so it was that Elyas and Ahad arrived at the domed turrets and Corinthian pillars of the Alhambra, where Jia had arranged for them to go to a concert.

The lobby was a sea of sherwanis and tuxedos, and over-processed brown women teetering on heels with backcombed bleached-blonde hair. Elyas noted that his son looked out of place in his faded T-shirt, ripped jeans and blazer, but Ahad didn’t seem bothered by it. Elyas gave him one of the tickets. ‘Thanks for doing this,’ he said. ‘I know it’s not been easy.’ His phone buzzed. He looked at it. ‘It’s Jia, she’s running late. Come on, let’s find our seats,’ he said, and led Ahad through the bustle to their places.

The auditorium was slowly starting to fill up. Elyas and Ahad squeezed past a couple in their row and dropped into their seats.

‘Dad, you need to tell her how you feel. You can’t keep pretending you’re OK.’

‘Who says I’m pretending?’

‘If she’s going to stay over, she needs to start staying over properly and not leaving before dawn like some teenager. This has been going on for a stupid amount of time. Did you really think I hadn’t noticed?’

Elyas laughed, nervousness covering his embarrassment. ‘OK, you’re right and I’m sorry. We’ve talked about it. We’re working through it. She’s just…you know. Your mother, she’s been through a lot. She’s just scared.’

‘Dad, you must be the only person on the planet who would describe that woman as scared.’ The hum of musicians filtering on to the stage and tuning their instruments interrupted their conversation. The sound of sitar and tabla mingled with the hum of the audience speaking to each other in Mirpuri, Urdu, Gujarati, Hindi, Hinko and English. They quietened down as an old Punjabi folk singer seated himself centre stage, his waistcoat matching the velvet bolsters he reclined on. To his right stood a beautiful young woman. Her jeans clung to her curves, oversized headphones covering her thick black hair. She moved slowly to the melody of the songs, adding her voice to them, softening their sharpness with modern tones. They were nearly an hour into the show when Jia arrived. The couple in the neighbouring seats stood up to let her pass, and she whispered an apology to them in Pashto, which the man acknowledged with a nod.

‘Where were you?’ whispered Elyas. ‘You’ve missed most of it.’

‘Meeting the police,’ said Jia, her eyes on the stage. He wanted to ask what the police wanted with her, but he knew she wouldn’t tell him, and even if she did she’d swear him to secrecy, and that would be excruciating for the journalist in him.

As soon as the interval arrived, Elyas made his way to the men’s room to give Ahad and Jia some space. He was washing his hands when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned round to find an old friend from school grinning at him.

‘Elyas!’ he said. ‘How long has it been? I keep seeing you on those documentaries, man! You have done well!’

‘Thanks! How are you? Still playing footie?’

‘Only on Sunday mornings now, I’m afraid. I’m in the police force. Keeps me busy. What brings you to this neck of the woods?’

‘I’m taking some time out of TV to work at the local paper. You must hear some things in your line of work?’

‘I used to. I’m working as a community liaison officer these days, visiting mosques, speaking with the imams.’

‘How’s that? I guessed with