A guard sat reading an Urdu paper in a small outbuilding by the iron gates. The emblem of the Jirga was set in the centre of the gates, its red and gold roses both warning and welcoming visitors. The guard glanced up and then quickly rose to attention as he recognised the approaching vehicle’s licence plates. The heavy black gates swung open slowly and the Range Rover slipped through and on to a private road. They drove for almost a mile before reaching the end of the winding driveway, where ten neatly parked black Bentleys signalled that the members of Akbar Khan’s Jury were here and waiting. A white Rolls-Royce, the only one of its kind in the line-up, was being buffed by a chauffeur in a neatly pressed Nehru jacket. Keeping up with the Khans was an expensive part of business, but the accoutrements of privilege were necessary if people were to believe they were living in times of plenty, and that their loyalty would be repaid.

Jia glanced at her watch; they had made good time. Idris had been in touch with the arrangements. ‘The Jirga had to start strictly controlling locations and timings after the attempt on Akbar Khan’s life in ’95,’ he’d said. Jia remembered those days vividly, her father in hospital, men in and out of the house checking security and ignoring everyone around them. A dark cloud had descended on the family business. Tensions had been high then, much as they were now, but this time her father wasn’t here to navigate them.

The riots of that year had left their mark on the Khans and taught them an invaluable lesson: organised crime cannot operate without the rule of law. So they had drawn up a clear set of rules on which the family business now ran. These rules ran alongside the ancient tribal laws, and were enforced and adhered to.

There was a clear protocol for meetings. Decisions were finalised last minute to minimise leaks. Representatives from each family met an hour before the scheduled arrival time to draw straws, with the man with the longest straw making the venue arrangements. It was a great honour, but the work required was hard and they had to move fast. After all, they were Pukhtun and hospitality was as great a concern as security.

Today, Mubarak Khan and his establishment had been tasked with the honour. A master baker, he was among the closest and most trusted of Akbar Khan’s allies. The meeting was being held at his bread-making business on the outskirts of the city, in a pink building that nestled among the landscape like a gentle rose.