by Saima Mir
‘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, it was the law of his family, of his ancestors, of Pukhtunwali, that saved him. It made better sense to him than the rules of crown and country, and it needed defending. He turned his back on the London career, and went home.
So when the large clock that hung behind the reception desk of his friend’s firm told him he’d been kept waiting for almost forty-five minutes, he was not surprised. It was a sign that he had been downgraded on the ladder of business courtesy.
When he finally arrived, Edward was apologetic but only superficially so. He looked dishevelled despite the sharp suit and shirt. ‘Idris,’ he said. ‘Sorry I kept you waiting so long. Billable hours! Some days I wonder why I go home. Come on, let’s go get a drink. I could use one after the day I’ve had. And the little something extra, if you’ve brought it?’
Edward’s car was waiting outside. Fifteen minutes later they pulled up outside a nondescript black door. A young brunette greeted them with a warm smile reserved only for the clients of London’s most exclusive private members’ club.
Inside, the conversation flowed, as did the drinks, and Edward was on his fourth when they began to talk business. Idris was still nursing his first. He’d tried drinking when he was young but it hadn’t been worth the guilt. It wasn’t that he was looking to appease Allah; it was that every time he put a step wrong he felt his dead mother’s disapproving eyes on him, and that was enough to stop any man drinking, let alone a Pukhtun. Still, a social drink was an integral part of the lawyerly life, and clients and colleagues were wary of networking sober. Saying no to a drink meant dragging up that great wall of difference, the wall that separated ‘them’ from ‘us’ and led to the sort of questions about religious ideology that every Asian Muslim kid dreaded. The only respectable answer to ‘Why aren’t you drinking? Is it against your religion?’ was ‘I’m an alcoholic’. But no one wants to do business with a man who overshares. And a man who overshares and can’t handle his liquor might as well declare himself bankrupt. So Idris would order one drink and keep it in his hand all evening.
‘I’ve been dealing with suppliers since Jesus was in nappies. You expect me to believe that you can seriously supply all the needs of our one hundred and forty thousand employees every week? What are you operating? Some kind of Deliveroo for drugs?’
Idris took a black folder from his briefcase and handed it to Edward. He flicked through the file, stopping at the first page. It detailed the names, addresses and personal details of every one of his employees, from the cleaning lady to the senior partners, and there were pictures. Pictures of powder being cut and snorted, sexual liaisons, of partners doing things they shouldn’t. Edward unbuttoned his collar. ‘How did you get this
?’ he said.
‘It’s part of the service,’ said Idris. ‘We run a tech company. Data is our business.’
‘If I didn’t know you to be a man of integrity I’d think you were about to blackmail me.’ Edward laughed nervously. ‘You know my crowd, my colleagues, my clients – they aren’t your average street-corner junkies. They’re connoisseurs. While I trust you, I need to make sure you understand?’
‘I do,’ said Idris. ‘You’re in safe hands. I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.’
Jia arrived. Edward greeted her warmly. He knew her well from the old days. She took a seat opposite the two men.
‘Why hasn’t this been done already?’ asked Edward.
‘Because people always try and complicate matters,’ said Idris. ‘We have spent months developing systems with untraceable layers to launder money through eBay, Gumtree and other second-hand selling sites. We have created algorithms for money-transfer sites that allow black money to piggyback on white and be secreted into offshore accounts. And the most beautiful part of it is that we can give you receipts and invoices for legal products.’
‘If you’re so sure it works then explain it to me so that I can understand. None of this algorithm bullshit,’ Edward said.
Jia remained silent on the details, as she had with the Jirga. She hadn’t felt either the need to let them know her plans, or the desire to gain their support. She would tell them what she needed to when she was ready. She knew, in any case, that men responded better to each other; the patriarchy was the domain of all men, regardless of race and religion.
‘The internet is too big for search engines to index every single website on it,’ Idris said. ‘That means some get left behind and these are the ones that make up the deep web. The only way to find those sites is if you know their web address. Follow me so far?’ Edward nodded. ‘The dark web, or darknet as it is also known, is not only not indexed, but the user needs to have something special to be able to access it, like an authentication code. To add an extra layer of security, we use it with Tor – “the onion network”. It’s a software program that you load on to your computer, like a browser. It hides your IP address and it hides the route your information takes by bouncing it through a network of up to five thousand servers around the world. Think of it as a huge network of hidden servers that keep your online identity and your location invisible. It means websites can’t track the physical location of your IP address or find out what you’ve been looking at online…and neither can law enforcement or government agencies.’
‘The onion network?’
‘Like the layers of an onion, the websites you’re visiting are hidden behind layers of anonymity.’
‘Do I need to wipe my history or anything afterwards?’
‘It’s always a good idea. We’ll install a cleaner on your machine that will do this and clear your cache automatically.’
‘And you are sure she’s up to running this?’ Edward said to Idris, looking at Jia. ‘She’s always been a little too softly spoken. She needs to be more forthright if she’s going to succeed at business. You know you need to make money, right?’ he said, addressing Jia now, and she knew she had been right to let Idris handle the negotiations. Edward was the kind of man who thought he was ‘woke’ but who said what he liked. His privilege and place in society made him believe he was infallible, but he was clever enough to know that in this day and age he needed at least to appear to show women respect. It was the kind of attitude that Jia despised. But she thought long and hard before she responded.
‘Edward, I don’t need to prove my credentials to you, because I know and you know that you’ve already done your due diligence on me and my company. Don’t ask me how I know, just trust that I do and think for a moment what that says about me and the information I have on you.’ She pulled a blue file from her bag and placed it on the table. ‘Idris showed you what we know about your employees. I hoped I wouldn’t need to show you this.’ She slid the folder across the table towards Edward. ‘Now, you can choose to do business with us or you can go elsewhere, but don’t underestimate me because I’m not a white man.’
Edward’s mask dropped. His face was now cold and devoid of all emotion. Stripped of his power he seemed to disappear a little, and Jia couldn’t help but enjoy the moment. He slid the blue folder back towards her.
‘We need something in seven days,’ he said. ‘We have an important client coming into town and need to show him a good time. I was looking for something a little different, if you get my meaning?’
Jia nodded and leaned over, putting her hand on his arm and smiling. He didn’t know whether it was fear or relief that washed over him, but he felt compelled to comply.
‘So, let me see if I understand correctly: after the first delivery, we can buy online through the website by placing an order for…I don’t know, stationery or something, and depending on what I pick you’ll know what my order is?’
‘Yes. The code is pretty simple. You’ll pick it up in no time,’ said Idris.
‘Forgive me, but this all sounds crazy. You’re openly selling this stuff online? You’re either brave or stupid.’
‘Bravery has nothing to do with it,’ said Jia. ‘I trust our system. Our IT experts make sure all transactions are obscure. If the authorities wanted to track down our users, they would have nowhere to look. The only money good here is crypto-currency. It’s the online equivalent of a brown bag of cash.’
‘And how will you explain all your crypto-currency?’ said Edward.
‘Our income comes purely from Bitcoin mining,’ said Jia.
‘So what about delivery?’ said Edward. ‘How does that work?’
‘There are a number of ways,’ Idris replied. ‘One way is through the breakfast or lunch order system. Every morning you get your PA to place an order at this number.’ He handed Edward a business card. ‘These are the contact details for your friendly neighbourhood narcotics shop. They also do a mean mozzarella panini and the best all-day halal breakfast in town.’
Edward laughed. ‘That’s what I like about you pick’n’mix Muslims: priorities, you’ve got them straight. Your business may be strictly haram but your food can’t ever be!’
‘We will have told them to expect your call,’ Idris continued. ‘Place your order and at 10.00A.M. and 1.00P.M. sharp the delivery boy will drop it off. Along with your sandwich. The only thing you have to do is wait, and make sure he delivers the breakfast box directly to your office. Lunch deal works well if you’re looking for a hit a day.’
Edward nodded. ‘What if I need deliveries throughout the day? For various people, you understand,’ he said.
‘Then I suggest you go with the Caretaker package. You put one of our guys on your office payroll as a janitor. We handle all the details, vetting, references, employment history, and make sure he has a clean record. He maintains the building, keeps the boys topped up through the day and cleans up – it all works beautifully. Of course, this works for your day-to-day needs. Any parties you want us to cater for, they’ll need our events management services.’
They were unsure what convinced Edward in the end. Maybe it was their sales pitch, maybe he liked their product, or maybe he was afraid of what they had on him. Whatever it was, they knew that this big fish was enough to bring in the ocean.
CHAPTER 37
It was the smell of urine soaking through his father’s trousers that the shopkeeper’s son would never forget. That and the screams coming from within the shop as it burned to the ground.
The knife had been pressed into the sinews of the old man’s neck, his eyes wide: he’d looked like a little child, afraid and helpless. His son had moved towards him, instinctively, but one look from Nowak stopped him dead in his tracks. He stepped back, impotent, angry and afraid in equal measure. They had refused to pay the protection money. Their allegiance had always been with the Khan, but he was dead, and now Nowak and his men were demanding blood.
‘Malala Food Store,�
�� said Nowak, reading the sign above the cigarette display stand. ‘After the Nobel laureate girl?’ Silence. The shopkeeper’s son only had eyes for his father, and the urine that had pooled by his leg. He felt sick to his stomach. This was his fault. He should have asked Idris for help. He should have called earlier.
‘If you’d paid my men your father would not be embarrassed in this way. But now we have to make an example of you.’ Nowak grinned, brandishing the knife the way a conductor leads an orchestra and then placing it back on the old man’s throat. His men hulked closed by. One of them kicked a box of laundry powder off the shelf. It fell with a thud, breaking open and spilling its contents across the floor. Another took a bottle of detergent and poured it over the powder, mixing it in with his boot, like children in a sandpit.
‘What are you doing?’ said Nowak. ‘We’re here to send a message.’ The men smirked at each other. ‘Fetch the cans,’ he said. He wasn’t used to getting his hands dirty but today was about more than this shop. It was about getting a reaction out of Jia Khan and the Jirga. He felt ignored, as if they didn’t consider him worthy of their time. Like a petulant child, Nowak thrived on chaos and the attention it brought him.
His men returned with red canisters full to the brim with fuel. They unscrewed the caps and began pouring petrol all over the shelves, holding the cans high and slopping the oil around. The thick smell permeated the air. The shopkeeper’s son could feel the stench in his throat. He tried to formulate a plan. There was a baseball bat by the till if he could only get to it, but he was by the door. He had been about to lock up when the men had forced their way in.
‘Here, give me one of those,’ said Nowak, taking one of the canisters and tracing a circle of petrol around the old man. ‘Who can help you now?’ he sneered.
The old man opened his eyes wide and looked at Nowak, the fear now gone. He was short, a few inches over five foot. He tilted his head up. ‘Allah,’ he said. ‘Allah can save me,’ and he spat at Nowak’s feet.
