THE HUNT FOR KOHINOOR BOOK 2 OF THE THRILLER SERIES FEATURING MEHRUNISA (11 page)

Chitral, Pakistan

Monday 8:35 p.m.

Crossing Boroghil Pass eventually turned out to
be
anti-climactic. Under cover of dark Meharban led Singh south of the border guard post. The region was desolate and the freezing night temperature ensured they encountered no one as they trekked towards the house of the guide’s Chitrali cousin.

It was a baipash, Meharban explained, a traditional Chitrali house. Once inside, they encountered the entire family at once. All were gathered in one large room with a kitchen in front. A fire burnt in the hearth around which people were clustered on homespun rugs. A single hole in the wood roof allowed smoke out. That was where they spent their time during the long winter months, Singh figured, heat from stove and multiple bodies keeping them warm. Through Meharban, he thanked them for inviting him inside.

They were offered tea and bread, which both were happy to gobble after the six-hour trek accomplished in under five hours. Meharban enquired for transport from his cousin. Pakeezah Coach’s nightly bus service would take Singh to Islamabad in seven to eight hours. It departed at 9:30 p.m.

Singh groaned. With no time to lose, an ambling yak wouldn’t help. Then Meharban laughed aloud – had Sahib taken him seriously about the yak? It was Chitral; Wakhan no more, he trilled!

Singh embraced Meharban, thrusting a roll of Afghanis into the boy’s hand, before hopping onto his cousin’s Chinese-made 200cc motorcycle. Riding pillion he reached Chitral bus stand as the bus was clanking its way out. Banging on its metal body brought the vehicle to a halt. As it idled, R.P. Singh thanked his benefactor and attempted to compensate him with cash. The Chitrali tradition of hospitality wouldn’t allow that though.

R.P. Singh clambered into the bus, reflecting on the past few hours. Help had come from unexpected quarters. Safdar and his clan, may the Wakhi god watch over them! And may his luck continue to hold.

Once again he tried to contact Pradhan. There was a faint signal but he couldn’t get through. After their first conversation, Singh hadn’t been able to connect with him again. Mehrunisa would be in Lahore… Raghav and she were a good team – they had worked together on the Taj conspiracy case. Raghav was a man of integrity; resourceful and brave. Mehrunisa was astute and didn’t crumble under pressure. That had to add up to something.

Singh wasn’t the praying sort, but that frigid night, as the bus wheezed its way down the rolling hills, he shot an approximation of a prayer to heaven which, at that height, was definitely closer. And he started to plan ahead.

Lahore, Pakistan

Monday 8:53 p.m.

Mehrunisa was led into a living room where her
feet
sank into a plush carpet. She perched on a beige silk sofa and looked around. Multi-coloured throws were carelessly draped on the sofa backs. Strategically placed lamps dim-lit the room adorned with large paintings. Tall French windows looked out on to a garden. It was a place of wealth and privilege.

A woman entered the room. Dressed in a silken shalwar kameez, her hair cascading in waves, she looked set for a party. As Mehrunisa stood up, she took a seat on the sofa across, crossed her legs, angling her red-soled Louboutins as she appraised her silently. After a period of scrutiny, she gave a quick cheery smile and said, ‘Harry’s daughter, what a surprise, sit, please.’

Mehrunisa gave a tentative smile.

‘And your mother?’

‘She passed away.’

‘Oh!’ The woman’s features seemed to soften. She got up abruptly and motioned with her right hand. ‘Let’s take a walk, shall we? Sitting inside is such a bore.’ She skittered across the room on her high heels, opened one of the French windows and stepped out. Mehrunisa followed. They were in the lush garden, a circular walkway bordering it. Begum Ameena was ahead and Mehrunisa caught up. The woman seemed in a hurry. With a toss of her head she asked, ‘Where is Harry currently?’

Mehrunisa hesitated.

‘How badly was he injured in the blast?’

She halted, taken aback by the begum’s intensity.

‘Keep walking,’ she commanded. ‘The reason we are in the open is because they have bugged the house. Hopefully these bushes,’ she shrugged in the direction of the greenery, ‘do not have microphones in them. Walk with me and speak low. And take off that tent, will you?’ Relieved, Mehrunisa removed the burqa and bundled it up.

When they were apace, she said, ‘The fact that Harry is not back in the field can only mean that he was injured in the blast. Which is why he has sent another agent. Though,’ the begum’s eyes narrowed, ‘you don’t look much like an agent. And why do they have to give you the identity of Harry’s
daughter!’

‘I
am
his daughter,’ Mehrunisa said with a fierceness that surprised her. ‘And he told me to meet you because he said you would guide me to your husband who’d know where the President’s Kohinoor is hidden.’

The woman looked at her with narrowed eyes. ‘Why would I trust you?’

‘Zamzama. He said you’d understand.’

Begum Ameena gave a bitter laugh and shook her head. ‘Bastard!’ she laughed softly. ‘My lover sends his daughter to enquire about my husband!’

When Mehrunisa looked shocked, she said, ‘Don’t look so devastated. Looks like we were both in the dark! I didn’t know Harry was married, forget having a daughter! And I have always loved him. Though to be fair to him, he slept with me just once. He has all these notions about honour and loyalty to friends, and Aziz and he have known each other for twenty-odd years. Or,’ she rolled her eyes, ‘he never loved me. Doesn’t matter.’

That was a lot to absorb but Mehrunisa parked it for the time being. ‘What is the significance of Zamzama?’

Once again Begum Ameena snorted. ‘Zamzama, the fire-breathing dragon, you know? Suffice to say that in popular culture that word has allusions to a man’s sexual prowess. I teased Harry with that after he refused to sleep with me again. It was a private joke. That’s probably why Harry told you to mention it to me. You see, besides the two of us, nobody else is aware of that one-night stand. Not even Aziz.’

‘So where is your husband? Harry said he’s gone into hiding.’

‘Harry? Is that what you call your father?’

Mehrunisa tossed her head. ‘Long story. Remind me to tell you another time.’

Begum Ameena paused to scrutinize her. ‘This is a ridiculous situation. You do see that, don’t you? The two men of my life, and both in jeopardy. Should I help one at the risk of the other?’ She cocked her head at Mehrunisa. The silence of the winter night lay taut between them.

Before either could say a word, a deafening noise exploded the quiet and an enormous ball of fire rose in the sky. As their heads turned instinctively toward the entrance gate that was the site of the inferno, the shock wave of the explosion smacked into them, hurling the two women into the night air.

Lahore, Pakistan

Monday 9:53 p.m.

When Mehrunisa came to consciousness she was
aware
of a ringing in her eardrums. Tiny lights pricked her eyes as she attempted to focus on her surroundings. There had been an explosion, and it had knocked her flat. She felt the grass beneath her palms and attempted to sit up. Her left shoulder felt sore and she touched it gingerly as her eyes scanned the garden. The backpack was near her elbow. It was still dark but the noise in the air was of sirens, bells pealing, excited shouts. Smoke and soot stung her eyes and nose and she could see flames in the distance. Coughing, she felt her body, touching her limbs, chest and face – miraculously she was intact. Where was the begum though?

Mehrunisa staggered up and took a few uncertain steps forward. The house was still standing but the blast had ripped the tall French windows and the floor-length curtains. Potted plants lay hurled about as if a hurricane had swept through the place. The blast had occurred near the gate. That was where she had left Raghav before entering the bungalow. Was he hurt? She narrowed her eyes as she attempted to cut through the tenebrous depths. Then she sighted something stirring in the hedgerow.

From out of the dark emerged a figure with arms held out as if the person were on a trapeze. Slowly but surely Begum Ameena emerged from the thick night. Her hair was tousled, her elegant silken clothes were in disarray, her long dupatta had been misplaced and streaks of soot now covered her erstwhile powdered face. But the red-soled Louboutin heels were still on and Begum Ameena now walked shakily but firmly on them as she sighted Mehrunisa. She approached her, eyes ablaze, head bobbing furiously.

‘Enough!’ Begum Ameena screeched.
‘Enough!’

The force of her emotions kept her from being able to speak more and her breath was heavy as she took in a lungful and exhaled noisily. Still shaking her head, she turned to Mehrunisa, her arms akimbo. ‘I am fed up of this barbarism, this senseless destruction of life, and for what purpose?’ She tossed her head again.

The next moment Mehrunisa was in her embrace. ‘Murree,’ she said throatily. ‘Murree, you know? Hill station north of Islamabad.’ Lowering her voice further, she continued, ‘Go to Murree and look for the shrine of Pir Mohra Sharif, the tomb of a revered saint. Ask anyone, they’ll guide you to it. Request for a meeting with the Sajjada Nasheen, the custodian of the tomb, my brother. Aziz’s sister is married to him – if possible, meet her too. You’ll find what you are seeking.’

She was shaking with the intensity of her emotions and the horror of what had happened. ‘This nonsense has to stop, now!’

Mehrunisa looked around for a spot to seat the begum. She heard feet scrunching towards them and out of the night appeared a hand with a gun aloft, a crouching figure … Raghav! When he sighted the two women he pocketed the gun.

‘
Khodaya shokret!’
Mehrunisa exclaimed. ‘You’re okay?’

He nodded. ‘When they didn’t allow me entry, I excused myself on the pretext of a smoke and walked to the rear of the house. I was out of harm’s way when the bomb went off.’ He gave a quick glance in the direction of the gate. ‘It’s a mess out there. A suicide bomber.’ He looked at the two women clinically, as if assessing for damage. ‘Can you walk? We should get out of here before the police arrive.’

‘Yes,’ Begum Ameena urged. ‘Hurry.’ She clutched Mehrunisa’s arm tightly, before sweeping a palm over her head. ‘Allah
nigehbaan
,’ she murmured the blessing, and as she planted a fierce kiss on her cheek, whispered, ‘Tell Harry I kept my end of the bargain.’

Lahore, Pakistan

Monday 11:09 p.m.

Aziz Mirza’s bungalow and its surroundings swarmed
with policemen. From the extent of damage Raghav speculated the suicide bomber had triggered a crude bomb – a device packed with ball bearings, nails, screws, popular with the jihadis. He had blown apart the security cordon at the entrance to the palatial bungalow, and in the process had likely killed all six policemen on guard. Begum Mirza had survived, as had some servants who were crowding her now. Rubble was strewn everywhere. The glass windows and brick enclosures of neighbouring homes were shattered and people could be seen cowering behind their half-lit windows.

As Raghav guided her, Mehrunisa saw a wounded figure on the road, clothes apparently blown off by the force of the blast, screaming for help. Dead security men, some dressed in protective vests and helmets, lay where they had fallen. A sniffer dog was dead beside one body. Their vehicle, or what was left of it, was unserviceable, the blast having ripped its roof and door out, leaving a steaming shell. Ambulances and police vehicles were parked on the road, lights flashing in the darkness.

From the relative quiet and privacy of a public park located diagonally across from the bungalow, Raghav and Mehrunisa proceeded to watch the developments. Raghav dialled a contact and asked for a car. Murree was located 313 kilometres from Lahore, he informed her, and considering night-time travel, it would take them anywhere from eight to ten hours to reach.

Raghav’s cell phone vibrated – it was on silent mode – and he answered, then beckoned to Mehrunisa to follow him as he crouched. They kept low behind the henna hedge that bordered the park, craning a neck every now and then to monitor the road leading to the Mirza bungalow. At the other end of the park a jeep stood, its engine growling softly. Raghav walked briskly to the jeep. Mehrunisa jogged behind. The next instant she tripped and fell over. Her hands touched the moist packed earth of the park. The halogen lamp above cast a dim patch of light upon the ground. She cast a look in Raghav’s direction and reached for her backpack. Her hand made contact with something smooth and soft and lighter than the bag. Hoisting it up for a closer look, Mehrunisa froze. Then she flung it, went into a spasm of shivers and screamed.

Raghav pounded down the grass and clasped a hand on Mehrunisa’s mouth as he held her firmly. ‘Shh… shh…’ he hushed as he rocked her back and forth, his eyes having sighted the object on which Mehrunisa was transfixed. He placed a kerchief in her mouth for her to bite and prevent the noise leaking out. When Mehrunisa’s breath steadied, he propped her upright, grabbed her backpack and started to lead her firmly toward the jeep. A man stepped out, handed Raghav a packet. Without looking at Mehrunisa he slunk into the shadows of the park and melted into the night.

Raghav held the passenger door open for Mehrunisa and instructed her to buckle up tight before bounding over and starting the jeep. ‘You okay?’ he asked as she was still shivering, her hands, streaked with blood, trembling.

‘Here,’ he pulled a bunch of tissue papers from a box on the dashboard and wiped her hands clean.

‘It was still w-warm,’ she mumbled.

Raghav understood. The shock would wear off in a few hours. It wasn’t easy, holding a body part in one’s hand, especially a torn bloodied human arm.

‘Let’s get the hell out of here before police come searching for who was screaming.’