Samad Khan knelt on the floor and lifted the Bokhara rug on which the men had been sitting before Jia arrived. He folded it once, twice, and from the middle to the side, affording it the respect a worshipper gives his prayer mat. Beneath it, hidden away, was a door. He took a small key from his pocket and placed it in the lock. It clicked open with ease and lifted like a lid to reveal a set of stairs. ‘There is no light down there, but your eyes will soon adjust,’ he told them.

Jia moved forward to step down into the darkness, but Samad Khan stopped her. ‘We must pray first,’ he said. ‘As with everything in life, it is our way.’ And with that he raised his hands, uttering the Bismillah loud enough for them to know he had begun calling on his Lord. They followed, some not knowing if this was the time to pray, and others saying the protection prayers they had learnt in childhood, until they heard his ‘ameen’. They were ready.

Back in the travel agency, Mohammed Akram counted the money carefully, each pile neatly laid out on the table, and growing steadily. Nowak stood back and watched. He could see Akram’s greed growing, and he liked it. It was the travel agent who had approached him to offer his services. He had been removed from the Khan’s inner circle and all because of a small matter. His ego had not recovered, and his izzat was blemished. He swore blind he had thought the girl was older, but the Khan had ignored his pleas. Mohammed Akram was bitter, and angry enough to agree to finance Nowak’s operation and help clean the cash using his transfer contacts. But all of that was an excuse; the truth was, his business was dying, killed by the internet. Even the older generation were getting their kids to buy Umrah and Hajj packages for them online.