Mr. Khan
1739 Words
MR. KHAN
“Salaam aleikum.”
A deep voice echoed from the door.
Dan, in front, squinted into the dim room beyond, just able to make out a colossal white shape moving towards them, hovering, not quite emerging into daylight.
“Welcome, welcome to Landi Kotal. My name is Mr. Khan, welcome.”
Mr. Khan was a huge Pathan, dressed in a spotless white Shalwar Kameez and perfectly polished sandals. His deeply lined, hard face was softened by a full white beard and the huge belly that stretched his spotless shirt afforded him a weird uncle vibe. To his side, two pale-faced boys stood with Kalashnikovs, barrels pointing towards the ground.
Dan could hear Fred swallow hard behind him, as they nodded greetings all around.
Mr. Khan beckoned. Breaking into a wide smile, his face was open and welcoming. His eyes were something different – entirely removed, as if made of stone, all-seeing yet blind, somewhere ahead of and behind their meeting. In short, Mr. Khan was tremendously scary, a proper gangster, entrepreneur, whatever.
“My sons, Ahmed and Yusuf. Good boys. You will do business with Yusuf to organize Peshawar side.”
One of the boys was so cross-eyed, Dan couldn’t be sure whom he was looking at. Perhaps, he speculated, all of them simultaneously, his vision resembling a wide-angle lens focusing on the entire room. But Dan liked the face of the young man; it was kinder than his father’s, not yet subjugated by the certain cruelty of the surrounding hills. What would he be like during an ambush of any kind? Probably unpredictable. This was Yusuf.
They followed their hosts down a long bare passageway into a spacious guestroom.
The walls of the chamber they entered were draped with rich swirling patterns of cloth, lit by two naked bulbs on the rough ceiling.
“Wow, it’s like Christmas in here.”
Fred was immensely impressed by the colours. Tim cased the room, the idea of escape clearly written across his too serious face.
The rich cloth, printed with squares, hexagons, octagons and other geometric shapes, lightened by interlacing plant motifs, drew the guests deeper into the windowless space. Two long rows of deep cushions faced each other across low tables. A ceiling fan rotated slowly like a weary, trapped bird above their heads.
The four companions left their shoes at the door, carefully stepping across gleaming, painted tiles covering the floor. Mr. Khan and Yusuf sat first, motioning their guests to follow. Ahmed remained by the door; his gun propped against the wall. They would have to pass him to regain their freedom.
Mr. Khan nodded to Ahmed, who disappeared back down the corridor, the only exit.
“You come from Kabul?”
“Yeah, but right now we’re coming from Peshawar.”
Tim took the lead, smiled at their host, more confident now, his pale face gleaming with sweat.
Mr. Khan extracted a pouch of tobacco from his shirt folds as Ahmed returned with a hookah and a basket of smoldering charcoal.
“You smoke?” He grinned.
The travelers nodded in unison.
A girl could be heard laughing elsewhere in the building.
Tim asked, “Your whole family lives here, Mr. Khan?”
The old man nodded into his beard, filling the pipe bowl with sweet-smelling tobacco before placing a piece of charcoal on top. The hookah had several mouthpieces lying like the limp tendrils of an alien, potentially fuming creature across the polished tabletop.
“Yes, Ahmed here is married already. I have two daughters also, unmarried. And two wives,” he added with a proud smile.
“But Yusuf has not married yet. He is in love,” the old man laughed.
Yusuf, sitting cross-legged next to his father, seemed to stare straight past the visitors, his expression melancholic, elsewhere.
“Very sad story,” Mr. Khan continued, “She is nice girl. I have no objection. She is a distant cousin. But she is already promised to another relative. Her father is a… a competitor,” his voice trailed off, then resumed its thread. “And Yusuf is my youngest son, very sad. We will find a solution, Inshallah.”
The visitors nodded silently.
Mr. Khan filled the room with his brooding, imposing presence. Mr. Khan was making conversation. He wasn’t a man to make small talk. Not here in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of unwashed, road-ripped Europeans. Everything was proceeding according to the script.
Ahmed had left and returned a second time, bearing a large tray, set with tiny, garishly painted metal teapots and small cups, which he now placed in front of the guests. Pouring the hot, sweet-smelling liquid into the cups, he deftly raised the pot high above the table, the tea cascading neatly into each receptacle.
“You want to take something in your bus? Hashish, opium, some heroin maybe?”
Tim shook his head, “Only hashish, Mr. Khan, only hashish. And maybe a little opium, but really not very much. We’re not interested in taking anything else.”
The old man took another hit on the pipe. “Come, smoke, my friends, is only tobacco.”
The room fell silent but for the steady bubbling of the hookah and the clinking of cups.
Everyone smoked and drank. Everyone was trying to gauge the situation, edging slowly, inevitably towards the serious business for which they’d come together.
“You are all from England?”
Tim made the introductions, “No, Fred, Dan and myself come from England. We drive the bus. In Isfahan we met Thierry. He’s from France, Paris in fact.”
“Oh, Paris, very nice city.”
“You have been to Paris?” Thierry asked.
“No, but very nice place, I am sure. Good people, French people, I like.”
“I agree.” Thierry said.
The room fell silent again. No one wanted to push the old man.
Dan felt the less information they volunteered about themselves, the better.
“You go back Iran or continue to India?”
Tim looked at Dan, searching his friend’s face for a clue to the best answer.
“You must tell me, because we have different arrangements for each route. India is very easy. Iran is little dangerous now.”
Dan said,” Yes, Mr. Khan, we’re planning to carry on eastwards to Lahore, then across to India.”
“You have some spare tires, no?”
Tim answered, ‘Yeah, we’ve got four.”
“Ah,” the old man smiled broadly, confidently. “You can take fifteen kilograms of Grade One hashish, very strong hashish, in one tire. And maybe one kilo of opium in each tire, too. We can pack very well. No need to pick up in Peshawar, you will meet Yusuf in Swat Valley. I have one cousin living there who will supply and pack.”
“What price, Mr. Khan?” Dan asked.
“Not very expensive, number one quality, Peshawar Police quality. Yes, yes, police in Peshawar only smoke the best hashish and opium. You try.”
He waved again at his oldest son, who produced a small plastic bag from his shalwar and dropped it on the table.
Thierry lent forward and opened the bag, “Mon dieu, ça bouge.”
Yusuf grinned across at Dan and Tim. He nodded imperceptibly. His father stared straight ahead at his guests.
Fred pulled some loose papers from his pants and crumbled a Marlboro onto the table. With an almost steady hand he extracted a sizeable lump of hashish from the bag. The dope was soft, brown and oily. Very pungent. The others passed the bag around while he rolled up, bits of tobacco and hashish getting caught in his long unkempt beard. He was bestowing an initial seal of approval on the merchandise.
“Looks good, smells great, let’s see how it flares up and winds down.”
“Make sure you put enough in. No point in being tight here,” Tim said.
Fred lit up, thick smoke billowing from the small joint into the room, mixing with the heavy tobacco from the hookah, wafting along the wall-coverings like a delirious ghost moving through the old building.
The big Scouser took a second hit and passed the joint to Dan.
“Is good.”
“So, you can get us sixty kilos of this, no problem, all the same quality?”
Tim scrutinised their host’s face.
Dan brushed some loose strands of hair from his forehead and offered the joint to Mr. Khan. The old man waved it away but Yusuf leant forward to take a drag.
“One kilo, one hundred kilos, no problem. Packed good, no one can find. Very safe to go India.”
“How much, Mr. Khan?”
The old man glanced at his sons, smiling all the while at the young westerners in front of him.
“You have US dollars, yes? Fifty dollars one kilogram, four hundred extra for four kilos opium. You try in Swat valley. Madyan. My brother-in-law, Fateh Rashid, he will supply everything. He is a good man.”
Yusuf turned his head suddenly to his father, interjected sharply in Urdu.
“What does he say?” Thierry demanded.
Mr. Khan glanced briefly at his son, who looked irritated.
“It is only the son of Rashid. My son does not like. He is the man to marry the girl. The son is no good, I agree.”
He raised his hands and eyes to the ceiling.
“But what to do? Her father makes the contract with Fateh Rashid. I can do nothing.”
He laughed drily, “But don’t worry, this is business. We do all the time. You are foreigner, we are family. You pay in Swat, nothing now.”
The joint lay finished on a saucer. The room had suddenly gone stale.
“It is a deal?”
The travelers looked at each other.
“Bon, ca c’est la raison pour venir ici, non?”
Thierry glanced at his companions. Dan’s and Tim’s eyes met, it seemed okay. They’d leave here clean. No risk at all. Yet.
“Where’s this place where we pick everything up?” Fred asked.
He was trying to be professional now, but Dan was sure that Mr. Khan would know any answer could only penetrate so far into the Scouser’s drug-addled mind.
“Swat Valley is a very beautiful place. Many foreigners like you visit there. Is Switzerland of Pakistan. Very beautiful. East of Peshawar, not so long. And Madyan is only small village. My brother-in-law owns all the land there. No police. Easy to come, no one checking when you go. My personal guarantee. Free of charge.”
The travelers nodded, stoned, smiling.
Mr. Khan rose and shook hands.
“Inshallah, we will meet again. I will make all arrangements. Salaam.”
Ahmed had picked up his gun and followed his father into the dark corridor. Their audience was over.
Yusuf smiled at the young travelers uncertainly as they picked themselves up unsteadily.
“I take you to the bus. Tomorrow we meet in Peshawar and you drive to Madyan. Okay?”
Blasted and consequently inarticulate, the boys could do no more than nod and follow the young man to the front door.
Outside, the world had shrunk a little. The mid-day sun was blinding. A pair of large birds hovered high above them, scanning the bus, the road and the desert beyond for any sign of compromised life, no matter how insignificant or devious.
- Writer
