The Khan

by Saima Mir

  ‘Ahad,’ she said, and for the first time he heard the weight of a mother’s feeling in that address. ‘Great love is not the thing of romance novels. It comes from blood. It comes from opening a vein for family, from seeing your face in each other, in your child, your brother, your father. Seeing yourself look back at you through someone else’s eyes, knowing that you would sacrifice yourself, piece by piece, for them, until there was nothing left of you.’

  Ahad was afraid to look at her in case it broke the spell. ‘You were so perfect, so alert,’ she said. ‘But you were unable to protect yourself. How I felt about you, it was such an overwhelming thing I couldn’t look at you. The way I loved you was all-consuming!’ she said. ‘If I had returned to your father…been reunited with you…stayed with you…it would have destroyed me and you. You made me afraid. For the first time in my life I was afraid of everything. You were my weakness.’ She looked at him. ‘But I will make you my strength. If you will let me.’

  Hot, salty tears washing away years of anger, loss and loathing flowed down his face as he broke down. And as they flowed she reached over and put her arms around him. He couldn’t tell how long they sat there, or how long he wept, but the velvet night deepened and then abated around them, and the azaan was calling believers to prayer when they finally walked through the door to Pukhtun House. Jia covered her head and showed Ahad the way to the ablution room. ‘Do you pray?’ she asked. He nodded. ‘Good.’

  Ten minutes later, ritually cleansed, heads bowed and arms folded, they stood side by side on the prayer mat, a very different mother and son from the pair who had met the evening before. When they were done, she whispered the words of the Ayat-ul-Qudsi and blew them across his face. Her mother had done the same for her every night when she was a child, telling her the verse of the Quran would protect her.

  ‘What is that for?’

  ‘The world is full of sharps and shards. I can’t save you from them – I have come to terms with that now – so I place you in the protection of Him in whose hands and control my life rests. He is all people like you and I have,’ she said. ‘He is all we have.’

  CHAPTER 41

  ‘Some men are here to search the house.’ Maria’s voice came through Jia’s dream, waking her up. She dreamt of the events that led to Zan’s death so often that it took a few moments for her to realise this time it was real. It was starting to get light outside. Maria was standing by the bedroom door in her pyjamas, much older than the last time she’d said these words. She should have been tucked up in bed beside her husband, but had stayed over to comfort Sanam Khan, who was still having trouble sleeping alone and suffered bouts of insomnia. The coincidence that led to this moment of déjà vu was not lost on Jia.

  She picked up her mobile phone to look at the time, noting a couple of missed calls on the log. She’d have to check them later. She hurried downstairs and looked at the video screen. There were five of them, all dressed in black, waiting by the gates to the house. ‘We are here to search your premises,’ said the lead officer, speaking into the intercom. It took a moment for Jia to recognise her. She cast her mind back: it was the officer whose reputation she had sullied in court a few years back, the one she had accused of having an affair with the wife of one of Nowak’s men. She was glad that Maria had been smart enough to leave her out in the cold.

  ‘Do you have a warrant to search the premises, Officer Swan?’ asked Jia.

  ‘We don’t need one,’ she replied. Her face was still, but her eyes flashed with anger. Jia could see that that day in court had changed her, and she had been nursing this grudge for quite some time, waiting for the day she would show Jia Khan who was boss. But this wasn’t that day.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t let you in.’

  ‘You are legally obliged to allow us entry,’ said the officer.

  ‘You don’t have a warrant.’

  ‘Under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act of 1984, we are allowed to enter and search the premises after the arrest of someone linked to the property. We have made such an arrest.’

  ‘No one who lives here has been arrested.’

  ‘Benyamin Khan was arrested at 1.00A.M. this morning.’

  Jia flinched. She had spoken without having all the facts. Her mind flipped back to the missed calls: it must have been from her contact at the station.

  ‘For what?’

  The woman pressed her lips together into a thin smile. ‘Kerb-crawling,’ she said.

  Jia turned to her sister with a questioning look. She shrugged.

  ‘I heard him come in about an hour ago. Someone must have bailed him out,’ said Maria.

  ‘Idris,’ Jia said, under her breath.

  ‘How long can we leave them out there?’

  ‘Go and get Ben. Bring him down.’

  As Maria hurried up the stairs, Jia picked up her phone and flicked through her contacts for Mark Briscoe. He answered after the third ring; his voice sounded groggy. ‘What time is it?’ he said.

  ‘Mark, five of your officers are outside my house,’ she said.

  ‘Let me get back to you.’ He hung up. His instant response pleased her and she logged it in her mental ledger. Over the last couple of months her relationship with the police chief had gone from cold to cordial, and was warming towards friendship. While not entirely throwing caution to the wind, she had accepted the fact that it was in both their interests to cooperate given the deteriorating situation in the city. Jia’s connections gave her access to red carpets, VIP passes to shows, and private boxes at Premier League matches, which she was happy to pass on to her friends and colleagues, especially those who had earned her favour.

  She looked up to see Maria coming down the stairs, Ben a few steps behind. He stopped halfway, just as he had the last time the police had come to search their home. His face had healed, his cheekbones returned, and despite having had little sleep, he looked refreshed. Jia loved her brother, but she wished he would make better choices.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he said, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

  ‘The police are here to search the house.’ She wanted to add, because of you, but her phone rang. It was Mark.

  Maria and Benyamin waited as Jia took the call. She didn’t speak at first, just listened, and then eventually said, ‘I understand. You don’t need to apologise.’ She turned to her brother and sister as she spoke, and smiled. ‘Yes, Mark, I’ll see you tomorrow morning.’

  ‘What do we do?’ asked Benyamin when she’d hung up.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘But Maria said they want to search the house. We can’t just let them in.’

  ‘Where were you tonight?’ Jia said, ignoring him. ‘What were you doing that made them think you were kerb-crawling?’ The intercom buzzed loudly before he could answer, and Jia pushed the button to let the visitors in. She looked at Benyamin. ‘This is your mess,’ she said. ‘You should get this.’

  A look of uncertainty passed over Benyamin’s face. He walked to the door slowly, turned the handle and stepped outside to find Officer Swan pulling up alone in her unmarked car. There was no sign of her colleagues. She climbed out and walked to the front steps, her face burning up as she approached. Benyamin, confused at first, regained his composure, remembering who he was.

  ‘Officer Swan,’ said Jia, stepping forward. ‘I believe you have something to say to my brother.’

  The policewoman stuttered and stammered her way through an apology. Something about crossed wires, Chief Constable Briscoe, and being more careful next time. Jia watched, her eyes on Benyamin; he seemed rooted to the spot with relief. She hoped that this would go some way to making him whole again. Even though it was Nowak who had inflicted the most recent wounds, Jia knew the trauma ran deeper than that. It had started years earlier with Zan’s brushes with the law. Benyamin had been a child then, but those who had raised him had been coloured by the incident.

  Her father had used bribery and corruption to keep the police in his pocket, and no
w Jia had sweetened the deal with favours and buttoned them in for good.

  CHAPTER 42

  An elderly man in a tired suit carefully spooned biryani into his mouth, his eyes on the curry house, watching customers order, eat, pay and leave. Despite the late hour the restaurant was filled with families young and old. Children played in between the tables as parents and grandparents folded pieces of naan into morsels and dipped them in sauce for them. Across the other side of the restaurant, Elyas was dining with John.

  They’d been eating at Café de Khan for as long as John could remember. The place was a cultural institution, having been around since the sixties. One of the first Pakistani eateries in the country, through the years its clientele had gone from homesick immigrants looking for a taste of home, to Hindi film stars and white middle-class food connoisseurs. Now with branches across the country, its newer establishments were slick, with modern interiors. But the original restaurant maintained its old-fashioned school-canteen feel. Prices were low and service was fast, and alcohol was strictly prohibited, but that didn’t stop the crowds.

  ‘Will you put that thing down, for God’s sake!’ said John to Elyas. He’d been on his phone since they arrived.

  ‘What? I’m working! That’s why I am who I am and you are not,’ said Elyas.

  ‘You’re on that bloody social media site again, aren’t you? What’s it called? Tip-off?’ John found new media irritating, probably because it had sounded the death knell for newspapers.

  ‘One of these days it’s going to help us find a big story before the police sirens get there,’ said Elyas.

  ‘I’ll stick to police media lines and tip-offs from real people, thanks,’ John replied.

  Elyas looked up. ‘Did you know that South Asians are more likely to take up new technology than their white counterparts? And did you know that the brown pound is stronger than the equivalent white pound?’

  ‘And did YOU know you’re buying me dinner with that strong brown pound?’ said John. ‘Speaking of money. Did you get anywhere with the “havala” story?’

  ‘The money-laundering one?’ Elyas had been looking into the money transfer method after a tip-off from the police. ‘Yeah, a little bit. I know that travel agents are involved, and that there’s no paper trail. It’s pretty complicated and I’m not sure anyone really understands it and that’s what makes it such a great way for criminals to hide and move money. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just something I’ve been looking into recently,’ answered John. ‘There are lots of hand car-wash places opening up across the city. I’m wondering if they’re dodgy.’

  ‘Probably,’ said Elyas.

  The waiter brought their order and placed it on the table. They began eating even before he’d left, Elyas tearing large chunks off the chapatti and dipping it in the karahi. ‘Who needs plates?’ he said.

  It had been a long day. The city had been boiling over with news and they hadn’t had time to eat. When John finally looked up from his plate he saw they were being watched. ‘Why do they let that old homeless man hang around? He’s always stalking the staff, judging the customers.’

  ‘Maybe because he owns the place?’ said Elyas, smiling.

  John looked at the elderly man he’d thought was homeless. His suit was oversized and his grey hair dishevelled, but Elyas was right: he was in charge. He called one of the waiters over and pointed to a table that needed cleaning. The waiter bowed repeatedly, fear written across his face, before rushing to clear away the dishes beside him. ‘I’d like to have people be that scared of me when I’m old. And have them do my bidding,’ John said.

  ‘What, on eBay, you mean?’

  ‘Funny,’ said John. ‘Any leads on anything on that thing then?’

  ‘Plenty. I’m using this site called Yik Yak. People use it to post stuff about specific places,’ Elyas said. ‘Remember that shooting last year, the one outside the club? Well, there’s a lot of differing accounts about who was responsible.’

  John raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it? Trial’s already begun.’

  They were deep in conversation when Jia walked in. She spoke with the owner; Idris was with her and Michael waited by the door. The old man said something to the waiter before leading his guests to an office in the back of the restaurant.

  ‘Did you know she was going to be here?’ John asked Elyas. Elyas shook his head. ‘I’d give anything to know what business a high-flying legal eagle and a slick city boy are discussing in the back of a curry-house kitchen with that homeless man,’ said John. ‘Do you think she’s getting mixed up in their business?’

  ‘I don’t know… Anyway, how are things going with your new novel?’ Elyas replied, changing the subject. His relationship with Jia was now public knowledge. She was spending more time with Ahad, which was good, but something was wrong. The Jia he had fallen in love with and the one he knew now were very different. It was as if the sun and the moon divided her personality. During the day she was devoid of all emotion, her behaviour alien to him.

  As John settled the bill, Elyas hoped she was not about to pay a price too high for her heritage.

  Waiting at the back of the restaurant, Jia knew exactly what price life was about to extract from her and she was ready to make the payment. The old man spoke slowly, with the confidence of someone who knew his worth. ‘I know you have come to me because I am childless and so have no part in the power struggle that is happening. I know what you are planning, Jia Khan,’ he said, leaning forward as he spoke, looking her straight in the eye. ‘We all do. We are old men, Jia jaan. We have lived. And we have learnt from that life.’

  ‘My father spoke highly of you,’ she said.

  The old man smiled. ‘You must know by now that to run this city is not easy. You must command the respect of the masses and the minorities. Sometimes it is the smaller groups that hold the power. Don’t underestimate anyone. At your age your father had the respect of his people.’

  Jia considered his words carefully before answering. ‘You are right, respect must be earned. And I will do all I can,’ she said.

  Samad Khan was part of the landscape. The only member of the Jirga without a family, his wife – another Jia – to whom he had been betrothed from birth, had been the only person he ever loved. He was a short, dark-skinned Pathan, she pale and attractive, as intelligent as she was fierce. He would show her off and bask in her beauty, both of them laughing privately at the comments they received about their contrasting skin tones. They had wanted for nothing in life. Except for good health. Doctors had advised them that childbirth would prove disastrous. But his wife was stubborn and ignored the warnings. The baby didn’t survive, and neither did she. After she died, Samad buried himself in work, emerging only when called by the Jirga.

  Without a family to distract him, his business flourished. His curries were served by royal warrant and found on supermarket shelves and kitchen cupboards across the country. He knew power, how to wield it and take it, but it meant nothing to him.

  His curry house was next door to the travel agency Nowak was using as his money-laundering headquarters. That was why Jia was here. She and her men needed access to put their plan into action. Samad was no threat to their operation, but without him and his blessing there was no plan.

  ‘There is nothing you can do,’ Samad Khan said. ‘The paving of the path to respect began many years ago. Only with time will you know if it reaches your front door. And besides, you are a woman, what will you do in the world of men?’

  ‘It is because I am a woman that you should trust my judgement,’ Jia replied.

  Samad Khan was intrigued. She was his wife’s namesake and reminded him of her. ‘Explain,’ he said.

  ‘Under Islamic law a man must divorce his wife in the presence of a qazi three times before they are no longer bound,’ Jia said. ‘After the first two talaq they can still reconcile. Men are easily angered, slaves to their passion and makers of rash judgements, as you and I k
now. A woman, she must only say once that she wants it and it is done. We women are more tolerant, we measure and weigh up before we make our decisions. This is God’s ruling, not mine. But there are few who understand it. There is little choice here, Khan Baba. Nowak must go. He destroyed some of your storage centres, he has sent informants to the police saying that you hire illegal workers. It was only by my providing you with a tip-off that the raid came to nothing. On this you agree?’ she said.

  Samad Khan nodded. ‘Those boys save every penny I give them to send home to their parents,’ he said. ‘They sleep ten in a room some of them, work all evening and late at night to help their families, marrying off their sisters, educating their brothers. They are not here to enjoy living off the benefits of the state. Nowak and his men, it is a sin what they are doing.’ Speaking about the kitchen staff had unnerved Samad Khan. With no sons of his own he thought of these boys as his children, paying for their airfare, finding legal representation to iron out citizenship problems, helping them when they were sick. He was shaking now as he spoke.

  Seeing this, Jia softened her tone. ‘Yes, Baba, you are right,’ she said. ‘That is why you have my promise that by cooperating with us in dealing with our mutual problem, no harm will come to you or your staff. Just make sure your insurance is in order and I will do the rest. When this is over we will sit down and discuss how to assist you further. My legal team and expertise will be at your disposal. You have my word.’

  The old man smiled. He had spent more than sixty years of his life toiling, and most of that without his wife. He was ready to retire. He had just been waiting for someone to hand things over to.

  ‘My wife would have liked you,’ he told Jia.

  ‘And I would have liked her, I’m sure,’ Jia said. ‘You have my word…as the daughter of Pukhtunwali, I will help your people.’

  The old man stood up. ‘Please excuse me, it is time for my Isha namaaz,’ he said. Then he placed his hand on Jia’s head and brought it forward, kissing her forehead. She smiled and thanked him for his hospitality. Before leaving, she turned to the old man. ‘Pray for me, Khan Baba,’ she said. ‘It seems the time for sacrifice is here. And we must all pay. You with your place of business, and I with my soul.’