Page 16 of Near Miss

Roshan didn’t care for Khan. Frankly, he was glad Khan’s son was dead for his part in corrupting Nadia.

But what he and the warlord shared in common was a desire for money and a man—the British soldier who’d gunned down Khan’s son and Roshan’s sister in an act of revenge.

The rest of the message had instructed him to fly from his home in London to Kabul and purchase a local prepaid phone once he arrived. He’d been given a number to call. So he’d taken the mid-afternoon flight to Dubai, then secured a flight to Kabul.

His dual Afghan-British citizenship and numerous business dealings in the Middle East and Asia through his import-export business gave him cover for his sudden travel and, hopefully, kept him off the radar of the UK government. He didn’t tell his parents where he’d gone. They would worry and plead with him to let Nadia’s death rest.

That, he wouldn’t do. His family’s reputation was at stake.

Eventually, the road flattened out as they reached the outskirts of Jalalabad. Colorful mid-rise buildings loomed over older, squat two-story shops, their goods piled on outdoor tables whilst Toyotas, yellow motorized rickshaws, and pedestrians mingled in crowded streets.

The driver continued to the outskirts of the city. As they neared Khan’s home, men with automatic weapons appeared—two near the gated entrance and another two patrolling the top of the compound’s concrete barrier walls. Roshan had no doubt there were more armed men than the ones he could see.

The driver stopped and spoke to one of the men before driving through the gates. Roshan’s brows rose. The mansion inside rivaled many of the posh country homes in England in grandeur. Clearly, Khan had managed to leverage his power and connections into financial gain.

An older man in his late sixties stood in front of the glass-paneled wood doors to the spacious home, his head wrapped in a blacklungee, his full beard more white than black. Oval-shaped frames sat atop his bladed nose. He wore an ivory-colored tunic and trousers beneath a brown embroidered vest. Two more men wearing army green fatigues flanked him, pistols strapped to their hips.

Roshan didn’t need to be told this was the warlord he’d come to see. He stepped from the car and placed his right hand over his heart, lowering his head. “Salam alaikum,“ he said, bowing. “Peace be upon you.”

“Salam alaikum.“ Mohammad Razul Khan shook his hand. “Welcome. Come, let us have tea.”

Roshan followed Kahn and his escorts into the home, removing his shoes at the door, then discretely placed a gift-wrapped box of Swiss chocolates on the table at the entrance, ones he’d picked up in the duty-free zone in Dubai International Airport before catching his flight to Kabul. As was Afghan custom, he did not present the gift but instead left it to be opened at the host’s choosing.

They made their way into a salon where cushions garbed in red and yellow silk were arranged around a low, square dark wood table.

“Please.” Khan waved him to one of the cushions and took a seat across the table on another cushion. Khan’s two bodyguards flanked the warlord.

Two women bustled in, dressed in flowing robes and hijabs. They brought a large bowl of water for each man to wash his hands, then removed it and returned with glass cups. The older woman pouredkahwah—a green tea mixed with cardamom, cinnamon, saffron, and other spices, into each cup from an ornate porcelain teapot and added copious amounts of sugar. Their second cup of tea would be unsweetened. Roshan’s mother followed the same custom when his parents received guests in their London home.

The younger woman placed a bowl of sugar cubes, a plate of sugared almonds, and another plate of pastries on the table. Then the women disappeared as swiftly and as silently as they had arrived.

While they sipped their tea, Khan quizzed him on his father, a doctor who’d taken the family and fled from Kabul to London when the Taliban first came to power. They discussed the idea of a business partnership—a subject Roshan navigated as carefully as possible to avoid offending the warlord. Western governments had forbidden their companies from doing business with Khan and other warlords in the country, despite the warlords’ relationships with Afghan government leaders.

He had suspicions that he was already doing business with Khan in a roundabout way, facilitating the import of certain items his contact wanted to be shipped into Afghanistan as discretely as possible. He was happy to be a step removed from the contents of the cargo so he could claim ignorance if needed.

After two hours, the sweets pained his stomach, and his bladder was about to burst from the amount of tea he’d consumed. All he wanted was to demand that Khan relinquish the identity of the man who killed his sister, but he knew better than to commit such a breach of etiquette.

“An Afghan-owned trucking company in Nangarhar Province has a contract with the US to transport fuel and other goods to the military bases.” Khan’s dark eyes assessed Roshan. “Someone such as yourself, an Afghan expatriate who wishes to support the development of his homeland, would be wise to consider investing in such a business.”

Roshan understood the unspoken subtext. The information he wanted from Khan would come with a price. “This is an excellent idea, Khan Sahib. What kind of investment would you recommend?”

Khan waved his hand as if it was of no consequence. “It is not for me to say, but fifty thousand euros would be a most generous sum.”

The amount made Roshan swallow. Hard. But worth it if he could expose Nadia’s killer and restore his family’s honor. “I’m sure it will be a beneficial arrangement.”

The warlord stood, signaling their meeting was over. “You are welcome to stay as a guest in my home, but if you wish to return to Kabul today, you will need to leave before it grows dark. The road is quite dangerous at night.”

Roshan rose from his cushion, his movements clumsy. A rising tide of heat burned his face to the tips of his ears. “Khan Sahib, I came all this way. Our mutual friend assured me you had knowledge of the man who killed your son and my sister.”

A dangerous tension filled the room, freezing the air in Roshan’s lungs.

Khan’s bodyguards stepped closer to the warlord, hands resting on their weapons.

Khan raised his palm. The warlord’s gentle smile contrasted the ice glazing his dark eyes. “Haider Sahib, I share your pain. But as an ally of the Afghan National Government, I cannot condone retaliation against Western soldiers.” He placed his hand over his heart and gave his head a slight tilt. “Khudaa hafiz.”

Roshan’s heart beat as fast as a swift’s wings. He knew better than to push the warlord. Squelching his disappointment, he returned the farewell gesture. “Goodbye. I am grateful for your hospitality.”

He followed the guards out of the home and climbed into the backseat of the waiting pickup. Frustration clogged his throat, making it hard to breathe. All this way for nothing.

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