Benyamin took the cash and shook Khalid’s hand. ‘I’m afraid I’m busy. You understand?’ He nodded his head once, the way his father did when he was implying trust. Business of this kind was built on trust and on distance. It was one of the many things he’d learnt over the last few years. Akbar had wanted Benyamin, his youngest child, to experience the family business from the bottom up, to see it from every angle, in order to prepare him for what was to come. There was no room for fear and little forgiveness left in the bank of Khan. Not any more. There had been once, back when Akbar had planned to hand his empire over to his eldest son, Zan. But things hadn’t worked out as he’d hoped. He had outlived his son, and the daughter he’d primed for the business had proved herself obstinate.

And so the apprenticeship had fallen to Benyamin Khan. His being out on the streets was risky – the child of the Khan was rarely put in a place of high visibility. But he was being closely watched over by Bazigh Khan, Akbar’s younger brother and the most loyal of all the Khan’s men. He would keep him safe and out of trouble.

Benyamin was only to collect from certain streets but the responsibility gave him a sense of pride. Unknown to him, Bazigh Khan had gone ahead and swept the area of anyone who might seek to implicate the Khan’s son in illegal activities.

Having inherited his family’s good looks, Benyamin was not easily missed. A chubby, waddling Pukhtun baby, his cheeks had been heavy with puppy fat, probably to protect the chiselled cheekbones and large eyes that emerged in adulthood. As with all Akbar’s children, people would often ask him about his origins. Greece was the most popular guess. Benyamin was young enough to still enjoy the game. He felt it set him apart from the average Asian kid. If there was one thing he didn’t want to be, it was like everyone else.

As Benyamin put the cash away, the pimp said to him, grinning, ‘I hear there’s gonna be a meeting soon, the Jirga getting together. Must be serious.’

Benyamin nodded, but added nothing more. It was time for him to leave. Khalid the pimp had forgotten that the code of the Jirga required silence as much as loyalty. One did not speak casually on the streets about the Khan and his ‘Jury’. Benyamin left saddened and burdened. A way would have to be found to reinforce the old lesson and make sure Khalid never made that mistake again.

CHAPTER 7

The Rolls-Royce purred through the broad streets of Knightsbridge and Belgravia, its navigation system telling the driver that he was almost at his destination. He was on schedule, despite the Friday rush-hour traffic.