Nowak was a man who had seen conflict of many kinds; he had sought it out and studied it and buried himself in it to the point where he had become practically fearless. But even he knew there were men and women in the world against whom you could never win. And there was something in Jia’s voice that day that reminded him of that. He had heard it before in men with no will to live, in kamikazes and jihadis.

CHAPTER 25

Her face unflinching, Jia buckled her seatbelt. ‘Let’s go,’ she said to Michael. He drove out of the dark basement and turned into the street, the soft hum of the car’s heating system tempering the silence. It was only when they reached the edge of the city that Jia exhaled. She leaned across the back seat and gently wiped her brother’s brow. She tasted iron on her lips when she kissed his forehead. He whimpered, his eyes closed, and she took him in her arms, pressing him into her, trying to absorb his pain, as she had done when they were children. ‘I’ve got you,’ she said. A myriad of thoughts ran through her head; she pushed them down. Leaning forward she put her hand on Michael’s shoulder. ‘Drive for a few streets and then stop the car somewhere quiet,’ she told him.

He did as she asked. Turning into a small backstreet, he stopped outside the Ali Baba Fabric Shop. The metal shutters were coming down, evening was falling and the owner, Wasim, was closing up for the day. He turned to see who had pulled up as Jia got out of the car. She looked left and right. The street was empty except for Wasim and a group of boys playing football at the end of the cul-de-sac. Wasim rushed forward to greet her, just as she threw up all over his shoes. ‘Water, I need water,’ she said, wiping her mouth.

The fabric merchant looked from Jia to his shoes and then back to Jia. She opened the door to where Benyamin was doubled over and Wasim’s eyes widened, a slow realisation crossing his face. He ran to his car and began fumbling around in the boot, returning with a plastic bottle and a bag of dates. He placed them in Jia’s hands. ‘This is all I have. It’s Aab-ae-Zamzam,’ he said. ‘My parents have just come back from Umrah.’

Jia took a long swig from the bottle then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She felt better but didn’t know whether it was the holy water or just the action of throwing up that had eased the knot in her stomach. What she did know was that she would not find loyalty like this anywhere but here. ‘I won’t forget your help, Wasim,’ she said.