She had believed she was chosen. Her father had told her as much. Repeatedly. Tell someone something enough times and they believe it. But somewhere along the road to being the favourite child, their paths had diverged. And now, travelling to meet her father’s men, she had to summon all the old ways and values and sacredness of that choosing. She wondered what she was doing in this rundown, forsaken city, a place whose children, according to the media, had run into the arms of extremists overseas. Even the men and women who ran agencies of intelligence, who possessed ‘in-depth information’, couldn’t tell them why these children were strapping bombs to their bodies. But Jia knew why. She knew what it was to run, and a part of her could sense the desperation that had pushed people so far into the wrong, just to find understanding and identity.

It was a long way from what Akbar Khan had wanted for his children. He had wanted them to do well, and in order to do that he understood that they had to integrate with the country into which they had been born. He had impressed this upon them and encouraged them. Both he and her mother were keen for them to leave the family business behind and start anew on unsullied lines and cleaner foundations.

The push and pull of old and new flooded back in through the windows as the car entered the city, threading its way through streets lined with sand-coloured buildings, ice-cream parlours, shisha bars and boarded-up pubs.

She leaned back into the warm leather of the seats, reminding herself that she had always been a good daughter. She had tried to live life the way her family had wanted, even though it had meant breaking away from them, and to some extent she had succeeded. But things had changed so suddenly, and now it seemed the life that had opened up to her was closing back in.

CHAPTER 22