THE HUNT FOR KOHINOOR BOOK 2 OF THE THRILLER SERIES FEATURING MEHRUNISA (12 page)

Lahore, Pakistan

Monday midnight

It was not the Pakistani police who had heard
Mehrunisa scream. Her shrill cries had pierced the night air and reached a man who was hoping for precisely something like that to happen.

He had instructed the suicide bomber to blow up the bungalow into which the Indian agent had walked. After the bomb exploded, Babur Khan, parked at a safe distance, realized things had not gone to plan. The bomber was unable to force his way through the security cordon and ended up pulling the trigger near the entrance gates. In the mayhem that followed the explosion, Babur, dressed as a policeman, walked up to examine the street. He found the head and limbs of the shaheed about fifty metres from the site of the explosion and tossed them into the park.

From his lookout he realized the devastation had failed to kill the Indian agents. The two made for the park but he lost track of them in the smoke blanketing the place.

However, the woman’s shrieking had alerted him – she had likely stumbled over the shaheed’s body part. He saw them get into a vehicle – a Toyota Land Cruiser – and pull away. The ridiculously-priced 4x4 was a powerful SUV. Clearly, the Indians were in a hurry.

Quietly Babur watched them pass and slid into gear. His vehicle though was a
kaykra
, Urdu for crab. Like its namesake, it could climb over or go through anything. The kaykra was a Dodge Powerwagon two-ton truck. A true six-wheel drive, it was also used by the Pakistani army, the same folks from whom Babur had hijacked the vehicle in the last fight in south Waziristan. The kaykra was unwieldy but unstoppable. He would tail the Indian infidels to hell if needed. They would lead him to Aziz Mirza, the last pawn in the game.

Kohinoor, the General had labelled his secret. But Babur had already hijacked it, giving that name to his operation. Inshallah, the documents would be his soon, Mirza and the Indian agents despatched to Hell, and Operation Kohinoor would deliver such brilliance as would obliterate the infidels once and for all!

En route to Murree, Pakistan

Tuesday 1:01 a.m.

Raghav glanced at the map spread out on his lap
as they headed towards M2, the new motorway their contact had suggested instead of the centuries-old Grand Trunk Road. Traffic had thinned as they moved out of Lahore and the night deepened. After crossing the river Ravi, a six-lane highway opened up in front of them. Keen to reach Murree at the earliest, Raghav pressed on the gas, periodically eyeing the rear-view mirror.

Mehrunisa, meanwhile, sat huddled in the front passenger seat, chin resting on her knees.
Even as she clenched and unclenched her fingers she could still feel the soft warm flesh of that bodiless arm, which, in turn, set off a concomitant shudder. Instinctively, she reached for the steel bangle on her right wrist, her kara, gifted by Papa as a symbol of his Sikh faith. In childhood it had been her talisman against spirits as she slept alone in her room; when her father became a memory, it became a cherished connect.

A hand clasped tight on the kara, Mehrunisa studied the streetlights whizzing by.

All those years of willing her father to return had borne fruit – Papa was back. All she had to do was retrieve the Kohinoor and they’d be together again. She squeezed her eyes and shoved the image of the torn limb aside. Instead she visualized a white gurudwara set in a verdant garden, regal cannons sitting at its entryway. She recalled the story of the battle of Saragarhi her father had told her, of twenty-one soldiers who defended a fort against an army of ten thousand Afghans. Over whistling wind and howling cries the battle raged from nine in the morning to dusk – how could the Afghans ever foresee that a bare twenty-one men would be able to hold off their assault until reinforcements arrived? Math was on the Afghan side, the ratio totally cockeyed. And yet, in the face of overwhelming odds, the few brave Sikhs had determined to win.

Nishchay kar apni jeet karo.

In an atavistic harking to that memory, she mouthed that war cry silently, over and over, rocking herself to the soundless recitation.

She would will herself to win.

Srinagar, India

Tuesday 1:45 a.m.

Harry was heavily sedated. He had started to
thrash
in his sleep and the doctor, concerned that the restraints would shred his skin, had administered propofol intravenously. Jag Mishra, who alerted the medic, had overheard Harry’s feverish mutterings and was well aware of what troubled his super spy.

In the labyrinth of his bewildered mind Harry was chasing ghosts, seeking answers. How had his mind given up on his wife and daughter so easily? How could he erase his personal life so completely? Where had his mind banished those days when he was a husband and a father?

In answer his mind kept throwing up images of a darkened study, chilly with winter cold, not a spot of light or fire for warmth but the burning glow in a man’s eyes as he recounted his days as a soldier…

It was the winter of 1971, Harry was eighteen and India and Pakistan were at war, a third time. As Pakistani tanks rolled towards the border Harry fled with his extended family to the relative safety of Chandigarh. In the city, they took shelter with Harry’s great uncle, Harry Sr, a legendary soldier who had partaken in all the great theatres of war that century: WWII, Pakistan’s 1947 invasion of Kashmir, the 1965 Indo-Pak war. The retired Lt. General was running an armchair offensive in that winter of ’71 and Harry was a willing and able lieutenant.

Over Scotch in the evenings, Earl Grey in the mornings and
adrakwali cha
at noon, the Lt. General related his adventures, illustrating them simultaneously through maps, books and journals from his vast library. Other family members would wander in-out but Harry had enrolled, engaging in sorties under the Lt. General’s command: refill the kettle, fetch the bottle of Scotch, lug the atlas of the world.

Harry’s great uncle Harbaksh Singh was commissioned into 5 Sikh in 1936. A graduate of the 1
st
course at the IMA after a year’s attachment with a British battalion, The Argyle and Sutherland Highlanders, he saw active service in the North-West Frontier. There he was severely wounded in the head – a steel plate was inserted in his skull and he lived in harmony with that piece of iron until his last breath.

That extended encounter with Harry Sr over a fortnight was to engender in Harry Jr a love for war lore. When other boys his age could rattle off cricket statistics or recite lyrics of the reigning Bollywood ditty, Harry Jr could recite numbers and figures from the great battles of history. How many elephants did Hannibal take with him when he marched across the Alps in freezing winter? Why did Babur regroup so quickly after losing Fergana? How many Spartans faced off the mighty Persians in the Battle of Thermopylae? How did knowledge of terrain help Moses cross the Sea of Reeds? How did the Indian army repel Pakistani invasion of Kashmir?

The last was learnt firsthand at the feet of the hero of that particular battle. On 21 November 1947, the Lt. General elucidated, word arrived that three thousand troops of Pakistani regulars, irregulars and tribesmen were at the outskirts of Srinagar at Shalateng, preparing to attack.

Col Harbaksh Singh, then second-in-command of 161 Brigade, was tasked with battle. He held off the enemy for three days, time in which two more battalions could enter the fray via Srinagar airfield. After he saved Srinagar, he was assigned with clearing the enemy out of Jhelum Valley – which he managed in a lightning strike.

That winter of ‘71, as fighter planes sounded overhead and black paper was pasted on windows, Harry participated in the action through the Lt. General’s war room set up in his study. Here the old warhorse discussed operations, devised strategy, spoke discreetly to officers in the army and made forecasts. Much as he predicted, the war ended in thirteen days. People sighed with relief and returned home. Harry meanwhile had found his calling. He wanted to be in the thick of action and he wanted to guide his country to security, much like the Lt. General. And history, yes, would be his guide as he surged forward.

Which was not aberrant. Growing up in a border town whose very air was suffused with stories of loss, history was Harry’s legacy. Partition had seen the Muslim majority region get apportioned to India – something to do with a large military arsenal that should not fall into Pakistan’s hands. The kafila that trudged across the newly-created Indo-Pak border, invisible yet defining, lurched across Ferozepur – forever marked thereafter as a border town.

The encounter with the Lt. General had only clarified things. Harry was to witness the fabric of the nation threatened repeatedly – by wars, by Sikh separatists, by jihadis. Like the Lt. General, Harry believed it was his duty to keep India secular and secure. Only, he’d accomplish it as a spy.

And early on in his vocation Harry worked out his spin on the maxim: Keep your friends close, your enemies closer. Tunnelling deep into the enemy’s lair was the only way to know him, from inside out. Consequently, Harry knew the swathe of land from the southern edge of central Asia to the soaring peaks of northern India like a mother knows her child’s face.

En route to Islamabad, Pakistan

Tuesday 3:22 a.m.

Inside the rattling Pakeezah Coach, R.P. Singh
settled against the seat – the driver had warned there was speculation that Lowari Pass might close due to snow, in which case they’d have to take the longer route across Shandur Top to Gilgit. The dire prediction had come true. And led to the build-up of a long line of trucks. He checked his phone again – no signal – his thoughts on Mehrunisa.

He had first met her when he was shunted to the CBI in Delhi to cool his heels. An anti-Naxal operation had gone wrong, according to the political bosses – Singh though was happy he had scored another ‘Hit’ – and he was banished for six months. In a proverbial jump from the frying pan to the fire he found himself assigned to a case that involved a tangled web of conspiracy around the Taj Mahal, the world’s foremost monument to love. Which, in hindsight, was a good omen.

For afterwards he realized, much to his bemusement, that he had fallen in love. Mehrunisa, the Mughal scholar-cum-restorer, who was the first to raise alarm on the intrigue surrounding the Taj, was the one he teamed up with as they raced against time to decipher clues that led to the conspirator. Sifting through the multiple strands of the conspiracy, Singh, in turn, got entangled. For the first time in his life Rana Pratap Singh, whose name figured on the hit lists of several militant organizations, found himself putty in the hands of another. Nothing a dose of flirtation wouldn’t fix, he decided, and dived into dating. It didn’t help, of course.

He was giddy with love. Disgusted at his newly lovelorn self, he plunged himself into the mosquito-infested jungles where he chased Maoists for a living. And Mehrunisa, thankfully, was not free to return his love – her whole self wrapped up in the mysterious absence of her father. She reciprocated his feelings, and yet, held back. That realization and the distance he put between them, however, did nothing to change how he felt. Loath to be Majnu, he resigned himself to unrequited love and clamped a lid on the matter.

Now, according to Pradhan, Indian intelligence was hotfooting to avert a prospective terror attack in a plan that revolved around one Snow Leopard. If Mehrunisa’s father had indeed surfaced after decades, Singh wanted to be around. To do what exactly, he didn’t quite know, but since he had started his dash in her direction, a phrase had been with him. It came from a novel he’d read as part of his ICSE board exams,
A Tale of Two Cities
, in which two men, a French aristocrat Charles and a British barrister Sydney, love the same woman. Lucy marries Charles, but ultimately, it is Sydney who saves them both as he keeps his promise to give his life to save a life Lucy loves.

When the class of fifteen-year-old boys first encountered that Dickensian saga of love and loss it had been unanimous in its verdict: Tosh! What good was quiet heroism when you lost the woman, eh?

Today, though, the phrase had popped out of nowhere, with startling lucidity.

I would give my life for a life you love.

En route to Murree, Pakistan

Tuesday 6:06 a.m.

The terrain had changed, the plains of Punjab giving
way to gently rolling Margalla hills as they headed eastwards to Murree. The sky was dull with grey dawn light.

As the Land Cruiser throbbed under his hand and roared up a hill, Raghav was only mildly aware of the pleasure of driving a powerful vehicle that responds superbly to the slightest pressure. At any other time he would have savoured the powerful four-wheel drive as it zipped from Lahore in the dark, swallowing miles. However, his mind was on the mission as he scanned the area ahead. The choice of a Toyota 100 series Land Cruiser was not largesse on the part of the Director, Pakistan Desk – Jag Mishra was leaving nothing to chance. The jeep had built its reputation in the Australian outback, a tough environment both in terms of temperature and terrain, and Mishra had a mission to fulfil.

Raghav looked at Mehrunisa seated in the passenger seat, her legs drawn up, arms cradling them as she looked ahead. Not for the first time he wondered what she was thinking. In less than twenty-four hours her life had altered more dramatically than that of any protagonist in a Bollywood movie. An art historian in the badlands of Pakistan hunting for clues to save her father and nation – just thinking it made Raghav’s mind go WTF?

When Raghav had first encountered Mehrunisa she was crouched over a bloody corpse in the mausoleum of the Taj Mahal, a suspect in the murder of the monument’s supervisor. He had rounded her up for questioning. It was to be the beginning of an adventure that would take them from the marble corridors of Taj to the surrounding warrens of Agra to the labyrinth of Delhi’s politics and reveal a conspiracy that could rent the secular fabric of the country. The woman who looked as if she had stepped right out of a Mughal miniature had, with her ingenuity and courage, helped police avert the biggest disaster of modern India. In that time he had got to know her as someone who could speak five-six languages, talk passionately about Italian Renaissance and Mughal history, drink red wine with exotic cheese, and take diligent care of an elderly uncle. She was the most beautiful woman Raghav had ever seen, and yet she chose to immerse herself in ancient artefacts and the past. Her intelligence and fierce independence had won his respect and they had settled into an easy friendship. But Mehrunisa was a private person and she let her guard down very seldom. Even after the astounding revelations of the last day, she was keeping her iron demeanour. Only at times he saw a chink, as now. With a wisp of hair on one cheek, chin resting on her raised knees, she reminded Raghav of a little lost girl.

He felt a pang and gritted his jaw – for both their sakes he hoped Jag Mishra knew what he was doing. An abrupt command from Mehrunisa startled him.

‘STOP!’

As he braked and swerved to the kerb Mehrunisa was already scrambling out of the jeep. Raghav shouted an imprecation, unbuckled himself and bound after her, right hand resting on the gun as he scanned the surround.

Traffic on the road was minimal, life barely stirring. Ahead, on the side of the road, a vendor had opened his cart for business. Corns were lined in a row, some with black bobs indicating they were freshly roasted. Embers glowed in a small coal hearth. Mehrunisa reached for a plump cob and placed it on the coal. The man began fanning the embers.

‘Bhutta. Want one?’ Mehrunisa asked Raghav.

He clucked his annoyance as he cast another look around. ‘That was dangerous,’ he muttered.

She shrugged. ‘Hunger pangs.’

Raghav remembered she had not eaten at dinner when they stopped at the dhaba; she’d just had a glass of tea. The corn was well-roasted and Mehrunisa was instructing the vendor on the dressing. He dabbed a slice of lime on a plate of garam masala, rubbed it on top of the cob and offered it on a sheaf of husk. Mehrunisa dug out of her pocket some Pakistani rupee notes Mishra had provided and handed them to the vendor. Not waiting for change, she turned on her heels towards the Cruiser. The bhutta wala was surprised with the largesse and watched them with interest as they retreated.

When they were inside the vehicle Raghav spoke, his moustache bristling. ‘NEVER do anything that draws attention to you. You left such a large tip the man will remember us.’

It was a few mouthfuls before she spoke. Red chilli powder stained the corner of her mouth as she looked at Raghav, her eyes green with turmoil. ‘Considering we almost vaporized a few hours back, how bad is that?’