THE HUNT FOR KOHINOOR BOOK 2 OF THE THRILLER SERIES FEATURING MEHRUNISA (16 page)

Murree, Pakistan

Tuesday 1:52 p.m.

Raghav gripped Mehrunisa’s arm and slid forward
as shield even as his right hand cradled his Glock. He felt her wince and peer from behind him. The man with the sword was less than five feet away. One lunge of his scimitar would behead him – should he shoot now?

From Raghav’s right a figure hurtled towards the striding man. He stopped in his tracks. Basheer was gesticulating wildly with his hands. The man nodded and sheepishly returned the sword to its scabbard. Basheer fell in step with the man and guided him on, away from them. Behind him Mehrunisa exhaled her relief.

‘What the heck was that?’ Raghav could still feel the adrenaline charge in his body.

Mehrunisa followed their progress. Basheer rounded the pavilion and stopped near a group of men, one of whom took the sword. On their way back Basheer pretended to wallop the tall man who grinned. ‘A sword for gifting,’ she said to Raghav. ‘For some dignitary in the gathering I guess. It’s not unusual.’

Raghav was unconvinced. ‘How can you be sure?’

‘The man who took the sword,’ she pointed with her chin in the direction of the officious group, ‘is from the dargah committee – the Sajjada introduced him earlier when I accompanied Aziz Mirza inside.’

‘Bloody,’ Raghav muttered and pocketed his pistol. A few minutes later he was back on track. ‘Any guesses as to where the Kohinoor is?’

Mehrunisa pursed her mouth. ‘I have been thinking and there is one likely place. Let’s start with the assumption that the General hid the Kohinoor somewhere in Pakistan. Right? In which case, which city would he choose? Islamabad, the capital and the city of his residence? Karachi, the most populous city in Pakistan? Or could it be Lahore? Well, to identify the location, let’s step back from the General’s Kohinoor and examine the legendary Kohinoor. Obviously, he set a lot of store by that gem.’

In the background the music was growing. As the men on the harmoniums began in the chosen key, the tabla player kept a steady beat. In a high-pitched voice the qawwal started the singing with praise of Mohammed.

Mehrunisa lowered her head close to Raghav to be heard above the singing. ‘Our first assumption dictates that the Kohinoor is in Pakistan. So, let’s look at what is common between Pakistan and the Kohinoor? The Mughals. But the legendary Kohinoor was never displayed by the Mughals in Pakistan. Shah Jahan was the first emperor to exhibit it in Agra, in his Peacock Throne. So, which Pakistani city did the Mughals patronize? Lahore. It was the capital of the Mughal Empire under Akbar. However, the Kohinoor was never displayed in Lahore…

‘Is there another link between Kohinoor and Lahore then? Yes. Kohinoor was lost to the Mughals when the Persian invader Nadir Shah sacked Agra and Delhi in 1739. Along with the Peacock Throne, he also carried off the Kohinoor to Persia. After his assassination in 1747, the stone came into the hands of Ahmad Shah Abdali of Afghanistan. Then in 1830,
Shah Shuja,
the deposed ruler of Afghanistan, managed to flee with the diamond. He then came to Lahore
where it was given to Maharaja Ranjit Singh, the Sikh king. Ranjit Singh returned the favour by winning back the Afghan throne for Shah Shuja.’

Raghav sighed. Mehrunisa had a history professor’s love for the subject of her study, but he also depended on her deductive logic. While working with her on the Taj conspiracy he had initially been dismissive of her historical thoroughness. However, that proved precipitate – where it concerned history, she saw things that he seldom did. The Subcontinent had been fertile ground for invaders through four millenia, time in which it had marinated in alternating layers of history – a fact not to be trifled with, he had learnt.

‘Professor of antiquity, I guess you are heading somewhere.’

Mehrunisa lowered her eyelids slowly, a dismissive gesture he was familiar with, as she thought something through. Meanwhile, the qawwal was reeling a verse, which was picked up by his chorus singers, and as it built to a climax, all passionately returned to the chorus, over and over, for several minutes. Raghav turned from the intoxicating chant as Mehrunisa spoke.

‘From India to Persia to Afghanistan to India again. Only this time, the empire is a Sikh empire of the Punjabi king who has his capital in Lahore. And,’ Mehrunisa’s face lit up, ‘Ranjit Singh did display the Kohinoor in Lahore! In Sheesh Mahal.’

‘Sheesh Mahal?’

‘In Lahore Fort.’

‘A building within the fort?’

‘Yes! Sheesh Mahal, the Glass Palace, was built by Shah Jahan. The distinctive Shah Jahani architecture is reflected in the extensive use of white marble. During the Sikh Empire, it became Ranjit
Singh’s favourite place. So much so, that he built a harem atop it. This was also where he displayed his prized possession, the Kohinoor.’

‘But this Kohinoor is a document. Where in the Sheesh Mahal would the General hide it?’

Mehrunisa shrugged.

A hand snaked forward and grabbed her shoulder. Raghav jumped as a startled Mehrunisa looked up. An elderly woman, her head covered with a white dupatta, stood behind her. ‘You are summoned. Inside the house. Begum would like to see you.’

Begum: one of the wives of the Sajjada Nasheen; the fact that she was keen to meet her meant that she’d likely be Aziz Mirza’s sister.

‘Watch out!’ Raghav hissed as Mehrunisa followed the woman who weaved her way through the heaving crowd. Raghav, meanwhile, watched her back and once she was safely inside the house he looked around again. The hall was now pulsating with the audience’s rhythmic claps and the lilting high-pitched singing of the qawwali troupe.

Nothing caught his eye as Raghav deliberated over Mehrunisa’s hypothesis. He knew she was an expert on Mughal history and work with her had taught him to respect her intuitive reasoning, but he was unconvinced. The connection between the General’s Kohinoor and the Sheesh Mahal was tenuous, at best. But where could the darned papers be? Why did Mirza feel the need to mutter that bit about the General and his mirror to Mehrunisa? The man had been drifting off, yet felt the need to narrate a silly anecdote. Unless that anecdote was relevant…

Mehrunisa found herself in a room styled like a theatre dressing room, mirrors along the walls with chairs in front.
Seated in front of a vanity mirror with peripheral light bulbs glowing bright was a distraught woman. The wounded Aziz Mirza was her brother clearly. Mehrunisa greeted the begum.

She returned the greeting, turned and caught Mehrunisa’s hands. Her voice was bird-like as she thanked her. ‘All I want is to sit by my brother’s side, but as the Sajjada’s wife I have a duty to fulfil on Urs day.’ On a sigh she let go of Mehrunisa’s hands. Then she handed Mehrunisa a handheld mirror to help her view her elaborate hairdo. Satisfied, she stood up and walked across the room.

Her image moved multifold in the multiple mirrors – the swirling silver anarkali kameez made Mehrunisa’s eyes blink rapidly. A scene from the classic Hindi film,
Mughal-e-Azam
, sprang to her mind. A famous dance sequence in the film was shot in a sheesh mahal, and as the heroine twirled, myriad miniature Anarkalis dazzled in the encompassing mirrors.

‘This is for you.’ The begum handed her a plastic bag.

Mehrunisa was lost in her recollection and the begum, with a motion of her chin, urged her to open it. A blue burqa.

‘For your safety,’ the begum added.

As Mehrunisa left the room clutching her gift, she chewed her inner lip on a thought that had struck her. It sounded crazy but it was feasible … The General, with his supposed passion for mirrors, understood the potential of the Glass Palace for hiding his prized Kohinoor. Additionally, Sheesh Mahal in Lahore Fort was the last historical resting place of the famed Kohinoor.

It
had
to be Lahore!

Srinagar, India

Tuesday 2:23 p.m.

Harry was recovering quickly from his shrapnel
injuries. He had developed the healing process over the period of his career – in a world increasingly fraught with terror and its lethal fallout, injury management was an essential element of the spying toolkit.

When Jag Mishra entered Harry’s room, he faced his upright back. Quietly Mishra walked to the front. Harry was seated cross-legged on a mat on the floor, arms outstretched, wrists on knees, back straight, eyes closed, breathing regular. Meditation. It was something his friend relied upon for recovery. Even the doctors approved. If there was one thing that could delay recuperation, it was stress. And Mishra had no doubt about the stress Harry was under. Nevertheless, not only did he need to heal fast, he had to regain top form quickly. And there stood Jag Mishra, poised to deliver a lightning prod.

He waited for Harry to open his eyes. Then, without preamble, he outlined in his calm manner the events that had transpired with Mehrunisa and Raghav since they had departed. In a flash, Harry had sprung to his feet – displaying the agility that still surprised Mishra after so many years – and Mishra found himself aloft, dangling a foot from the ground.

From his heavily bandaged face, Harry’s eyes glowered at Mishra. His friend could kill him at this very moment, Mishra thought, as he pondered his next move. He could take a swing at Harry’s groin, which would buy him a moment in which to pull out his pistol. But he doused it. Even with his one hand gripping Mishra by the neck of his shirt, Harry would take less than a couple of seconds to simultaneously dump him and seize his pistol. No. A suspended Mishra was hoping Harry’s trademark ability to rein in his emotions would assert itself, and save him.

‘You had no right to send her into the field!’

The next instant Harry let go. Mishra fell to the floor, lurched and steadied himself with the bedpost to his right. As he straightened he smoothed his powder blue cashmere pullover, patting it in an attempt to collect himself. ‘I had no other option.’

Harry was breathing heavily as he glared at him, his teeth bared like an animal’s. ‘Don’t waste your politics on me, Mishra.’ He walked up to the barred window and looked out. After a while, he spoke. His voice was dispassionate, remote. ‘Congrats Chanakya. Your plan is working.’

Mishra stayed silent. Harry’s use of his moniker ‘Chanakya’, the one by which Mishra was addressed behind his back, was not lost on him.

‘You knew I would not go into the field after I discovered your deception. But without the Snow Leopard, you and your team are putty. So what does the mighty Chanakya decide? He takes a hapless cub and throws her to the hyenas. Doubtless the Snow Leopard will follow.’

Mishra knew better than to repudiate the accusation. Harry rotated his shoulders, tilted his neck, left, right. He turned to face him. The faint morning light filtered through the bars, lighting Harry’s face and upper body in alternate patches of light and dark. His face in bandages, his left arm immobilized in a case, he looked like a mummy that had come to life. His voice, when it rang out, had the cold clang of steel. ‘From this moment on, I am in charge of this case. Update me with all the information we have. And you,’ his index finger was pointed at Mishra, ‘will do what I tell you.’

He glanced at the wall clock. ‘In twelve hours I will be in the field. I need to start preparing now. Get me a multi-gym right away. And tell the surgeon I want this plaster removed asap. Tell Saby and his team of analysts to get me all the information they can on Kohinoor, famous Mughal monuments in Pakistan, who built them, which period, why, special features, everything. Pin up detailed maps of Pakistan and Afghanistan for me. I want terrain, streets, satellite images, and anything else those boys can come up with. Understood?’

Mishra nodded. Harry flicked his right hand in dismissal.

Jag Mishra walked down the length of the room. He was not a gambling man, but like his namesake Chanakya, a strategist. Thus far, his strategy had worked to a T. However, from this point on, the strategy relied heavily on a gamble: a gamble that a severely injured man would be able to walk into a battlefield and rescue Kohinoor, a gem that had plagued every man who had possessed it, and in doing so, save his nation and his daughter.

At the door, Harry’s voice stopped him. ‘You are a Brahmin, Mishra, right? You hail from the caste of the legendary gatekeepers to god, so you will know your shlokas. Well, time to start invoking the gods, Mishra, and pray for my success. Because your life depends on it.’

Murree, Pakistan

Tuesday 2:30 p.m.

‘The General’s Kohinoor is hiding in the same place
as the last resting place of the legendary Kohinoor!’ Mehrunisa declared as she finished telling Raghav her deduction.

‘Perhaps Aziz Mirza was trying to convey the same when he went on about the General and mirrors,’ Raghav surmised. ‘So Lahore it is.’

The next instant a loud clamour broke through the gathering. Mehrunisa found her cheek next to the ground as Raghav hovered over her, his neck craned to locate the sound. A few men pointed towards the doorway.

In the courtyard outside, bursting with men swaying to the qawwal, the dance had ratcheted up. Raghav helped Mehrunisa up. Dressed in white robes the dancers whirled round and round, arms outstretched, eyes closed, dreadlocks flying. Praises of Allah ricocheted. All eyes were fixed on the trance-like dance of the devotees. Raghav felt something down his spine and swivelled to his right.

A man was working his way briskly through the crowd towards them. His face bent low, his hooded eyes fixed on Raghav, his right hand hidden in the folds of his long robe. Quick, determined steps as he parted the crowd with his bare left hand.

Mehrunisa stood to Raghav’s left, immersed in the hysteria generated by the whirling devotees.
She felt the rhythm ripple through her. Before she found herself staggering
through the thick throng encircling the dervishes. Hands steadied her as she stumbled through. A dazed Mehrunisa found herself in the courtyard, inside the circle of onlookers. Confounded, she sought Raghav.

Through a flash of upraised arms and swaying bodies she sighted him. He was standing in the same place, his body tense and inclined forward. Yet, he had pushed her out with deliberate force. A tall turbanned man was nearing him. He looked no different from the other men in the gathering. The loose end of his turban flapped as he strode forward. Wrapped in a voluminous woollen shawl the man looked set to engulf Raghav. The circle of onlookers closed in and the gap through which Mehrunisa was watching vanished. She licked her lips. Something was wrong.
Very wrong
.

Using her right shoulder as lever she attempted to prise her way through the throng. The song at a crescendo, the crowd surged forward with each rhythmic sway of their bodies, pushing Mehrunisa back even as she attempted to go ahead. Mehrunisa was struggling with a heaving mass when the qawwal wound the song down. Abruptly the crowd shuddered to a halt. In that split space Mehrunisa bolted forward. A sound arrested her. In the earlier frenzy it would have been lost but in the sudden quiet, it jolted her. Raghav had demonstrated it to her just a day back.

The mechanical noise of a hammer falling. What Mehrunisa had heard was the sound of a silenced gun being fired. She lunged through and came to a sudden halt.

Raghav lay on the floor. The front of his jacket was stained red.