THE HUNT FOR KOHINOOR BOOK 2 OF THE THRILLER SERIES FEATURING MEHRUNISA (17 page)

Karachi, Pakistan

Tuesday 2:45 p.m.

Mehmud walked rigidly, arms plastered to his sides.
He liked to sit on his haunches and roll back and forth. He liked its rhythm. He liked rhythm.

La ilaha illallah.

There is no god but Allah.

He liked repetition.
Allah hu Akbar. Allahhu Akbar. AllahhuAkbar.

God is Great.

He did not like the street he was walking in – too many people, too many vehicles, too much noise. But he followed quietly as Qari Abdullah limped ahead. Mehmud had a journey to undertake, a short one to the land of kafirs. Once there, he would follow instructions. And soon after he would find himself in God’s home. A special place was reserved there for martyrs and Mehmud the martyr would take his.

A dog yelped and brushed against him. Mehmud stiffened. He wanted to kick out at the cur but he was not to draw attention to himself. He was part of the background. He was not to look different, be different or do different. If ever his mind wandered he was to bring it into focus again. Rhythm. Repetition.

La ilaha illallah. La ilaha illallah. La ilaha illallah.

In his mind’s eye Mehmud was rocking back and forth even as he stiffmarched behind Abdullah. From Karachi to Lahore by bus was many hours, and then many hours in kafir land before he became a martyr. Qari Abdullah had recorded his
shahadat
video in the morning. Dressed in black, a green band on his head, a rifle upright in his hand, Mehmud had declared himself a
shaheed
.

Only the deed remained to be done.

Murree, Pakistan

Tuesday 2:59 p.m.

Babur Khan watched the woman who had stormed
through the crowd and was now looking stricken at the fallen man. The hysterical crowd was still swooning over the qawwal’s singing, yet to realize a man in its midst had been shot. Which was good. It gave him time to grab the woman. Once again Babur studied her as she bent over the wounded man. Her straight black hair was like a veil. She looked up, grey-green eyes scanning the crowd.

She made an interesting quarry. Clearly a Westernized woman, yet her looks were Middle Eastern. As was her name. The women he had known in his previous life he abhorred now – they were wanton. The women he knew now knew their place, which he appreciated. But a challenge would be good. A woman like this had not crossed his path, ever. What would it be like to subdue her? She might prove a more worthwhile game than her dying compatriot. He had been easy.

He had found a man from the fringes of the crowd, a man who had the imposing build of a Pathan but the manner of a true devotee. Babur had spent precious time scouting before choosing him. Then he passed a note to him to hand to the Indian security guy. And as the man walked up to him, a clueless emissary, Babur approached Raghav from the side. As his man approached and Raghav’s hand tensed on his gun, their eyes locking, Babur came up from behind and pressed his silenced gun into Raghav’s shoulder. The bullet went straight through and he shot twice to make sure. Then, as his messenger saw the man slip to the floor, he panicked and melted into the throng without casting a look back. Babur concealed himself behind a pillar from where he now observed Mehrunisa.

He had to get the woman before the crowd became aware of the bleeding man. He stepped out from behind the pillar, the gun in his waistband – there would be no need for it. Quiet pressure on her neck would subdue her. Reaching her, he bent forward solicitously. Mehrunisa looked up, their eyes locked.

‘We need to move him to safety,’ Babur spoke in a calm voice.

Feigning to hoist the wounded Raghav, he moved around Mehrunisa. As he did, he brought his right arm around her and with Mehrunisa bent over, placed his hand on her nape. A sharp chop came down on his neck and he found himself spinning to the floor. A man had shoved Mehrunisa out of the way and stood between them now. Recovering from his fall, Babur swivelled up, simultaneously drawing his gun. But the man was faster. Holding his gun to eye level he shot, Babur dived, his gun clattered to the floor.

Meanwhile, the crowd was witnessing the gunfight in a frozen terror that Mehrunisa’s scream broke. Responding to her pleas, two men started to lift Raghav from the floor. Basheer, the guide who had led them earlier to Mirza’s hideout, began clearing a way. Mehrunisa stood back hesitantly as she looked from Raghav to the two men engaged in battle.

Babur lay prone, pretending to be fatally wounded. Through shuttered eyes, he watched her. If she disappeared into the Sajjada Nasheen’s house it would be impossible to kidnap her. But here, she was putty. He studied his assailant. The man was dressed similar to him: bearded, shalwar kameez, pakol. He hadn’t been informed there was a third accomplice. The man, knees bent, moved forward slowly, his gun at eye level. And Babur knew in an instant: the man was a trained soldier or copper. The pose was out of a Special Ops training manual. Who was he exactly? As he neared, Babur swung his right leg into the man’s groin. He staggered back. The gun was held firm though. Scissoring his legs, Babur hoisted himself off the floor in a lithe move. He bent to retrieve his gun. The assailant fired. Babur dove into the crowd.

The man cast a quick look at Mehrunisa and commanded crisply, ‘Go!’ As she seemed to hesitate he jabbed his finger towards the house, ‘Inside! NOW!’ His voice was strong and crisp, used to giving commands. She hesitated, as if in recognition, then shook her head. Basheer tugged at her wrist and motioned her to move.

The devotees started to cluster, unsure. From within a throng, Babur took aim. A shot sounded. A cry rang out. A man collapsed. Blood seeped onto the floor – the throng parted like the proverbial sea for Moses’ crossing. The two adversaries were face to face. Knees bent they examined each other, eyes locked, weapons steady.

From the corner of his eye Babur saw something sail at him. Even as she hurried away Mehrunisa was craning her neck to look back. She must have grabbed it from the periphery and hurled it at him. Had she forgotten she had a weapon, or had she lost her nerve after the random shooting of the morning? He attempted to duck. The sandal thudded into his shoulder. The same shoulder, injured by a dislodged icicle, and it hurt like hell. He let off a barrage. His assailant answered the gunfire. Pandemonium broke out as the crowd retracted. Shrieks and cries resounded. A bullet got him in the leg. A broken shoulder and a bleeding leg. Time to get away.

Moving his gun in furious arcs Babur hurled himself at the crowd. He zigzagged his way through the peeling throng. His assailant would not fire at him for fear of injuring someone in the crowd.

Murree, Pakistan

Tuesday 3:05 p.m.

The Sajjada Nasheen wore a grim look: eyes heavy-
lidded, mouth sunk in ponderance as he studied the floral carpet at his feet. Mehrunisa knew what he was thinking. A festive day at the shrine had been converted into one of open violence. He had two grievously injured men on his premises, both connected to intelligence, that too of opposing camps. Somewhere inside, the doctor who had barely finished with Aziz Mirza was examining Raghav. Soon, police would arrive with uncomfortable questions… Additionally, there was a young woman sitting across from him who had to be taken care of.

Mehrunisa faked a measure of calmness she was nowhere close to feeling. If only she could hyperventilate her way through such an experience, faint, get some respite. Instead she was sitting on a velvet sofa, ankles crossed, hands interlocked as if at a boring party. Recurring bloody images scrolled through her mind, fear and remorse clotted her mouth. If Raghav died it would be because of her. He pushed her to safety and took her bullets. In turn, she had trusted the killer and accepted his assistance before the other man intervened.

Who was he? Why had he come to her rescue? In that brief moment when he shouted at her to leave he seemed familiar, known, and yet, she couldn’t place a finger on it. She tried to recall his looks, but couldn’t. It had all happened so quickly. The man was dressed in indeterminate clothing, a bomber jacket over a shalwar kameez, a pakol hat. He was bearded … beyond that, what?

Had he sprung to her defence out of chivalry? Unlikely. The man was evidently aware of the assailant. Was he from Indian intelligence? In which case, was Raghav unaware of his presence? As if by telepathy, the Sajjada Nasheen spoke up. ‘Do you know the man who jumped in to save you?’

Mehrunisa shook her head.

‘You have never seen him before?’

‘I don’t know. There was something familiar about him but I can’t say what.’

‘Probably in disguise. Part of the trade, right?’ He studied Mehrunisa before letting out a long sigh. ‘Look, I don’t mean to be abrupt but there are things I need to take care of,’ he indicated outside with a nod of his head. ‘Your friend will of course stay here until he is picked up but I presume your office has some instructions for you.’

Mehrunisa nodded. As he was being carried from the shrine Raghav had instructed her to contact Jag Mishra using the crypto phone. The Director, Pakistan Desk had listened, then given very precise instructions. She was to seek the Sajjada Nasheen’s assistance in keeping the police at bay until a RAW chopper could pick Raghav up within the next two hours. How would the Indian chopper enter Pakistani air space, she had queried worriedly. Violation of neighbourly air space was not entirely unheard of, Mishra had supplied with equanimity. Pakistan would lodge an official complaint soon enough.

‘They will move him in an hour. But I have to continue with the mission shortly.’

‘I will send two escorts with you. No, don’t protest,’ he said, his fingers wagging to quell her protestations. ‘Your enemy means business. Two men on their deathbeds in the span of one morning. And you he almost had until your Samaritan jumped in. For the sake of my conscience, I insist that these men accompany you.’

As Mehrunisa seemed to ponder this, he added, ‘They are trustworthy men, handy with firearms. Think of them as deterrents.’

The door opened and an attendant walked to the Sajjada Nasheen, bowed and spoke softly. The Sajjada nodded and the man took position behind him. ‘Your friend has summoned you. Mahmud here will escort you to him. Then he’ll take you to your vehicle and your bodyguards.’

Mehrunisa stood up. It was time to say goodbye, except she was unsure of the protocol. When Raghav and she had arrived at his doorstep in the morning the Sajjada had been a stranger. In a short span he had shown himself to be a principled man – how was she to thank him? She did what came to her instinctively. Clasping her hands together in front of her, she tilted her head, ‘Shukriya.’

The Sajjada Nasheen lifted his right hand in benediction. ‘Allah nigehbaan,’ he said softly. God be with you.

In the makeshift surgery set up earlier for Aziz Mirza, the doctor had managed to remove one bullet from Raghav’s shoulder; the other was lodged in his chest and had likely fragmented. ‘An operation will take care of the offending object. The patient will live,’ he informed her as he stepped out of the room.

A bandaged Raghav regarded Mehrunisa. ‘Sight for sore eyes,’ he snorted, then winced at the pain that seemed to radiate with the slightest movement. ‘Sit.’ With his eyes he indicated the wooden stool next to the bed. ‘Hear. Me. Out.’

Was Raghav weak or was he deliberately speaking slowly to make a point?

‘Don’t waste time thinking about what happened there.’ His eyes swivelled to indicate the shrine. ‘From now on, you are on your own.’ He licked his dry lips. ‘Use. Your. Gun.’

Her mouth pursed, Mehrunisa leaned in.

‘Next time you face your attacker, you won’t freeze.’

‘How do you know?’ It came out as a whisper.

‘Because the next time you won’t see him. You’ll see what is at stake.’ Raghav closed his eyes as if drained of all energy.

Mehrunisa waited for some time. Deciding to check on her vehicle for the journey ahead, she walked to the door. She was at the threshold when Raghav’s feeble voice carried to her.

‘Remember Mehrunisa, remember … what is at stake.’

Murree, Pakistan

Tuesday 4 p.m.

Two armed men stood beside the vehicle Raghav
had
parked early morning in the shrine’s parking lot. They refused to look at Mehrunisa as she approached, Basheer following with a plastic bag of drinking water and packed food from the begum. The aroma of hot, buttered rotis made Mehrunisa aware of her growling stomach. Except for one roasted corn she hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours.

The vehicle took off, shifting abruptly into high speed as the driver pulled away. Mehrunisa tightened her seat belt. In Lahore in two hours,
if
all went well.
Inshallah
, she muttered beneath her breath.

The chopper had arrived, Saby and another plainclothes man in it. She had escorted Raghav as he was carried to the copter; heavily sedated, he hadn’t opened his eyes.

Raghav would be back in Srinagar soon, at the same military hospital her father was in. Raghav was safe. How was her father? Why had she not asked Jag Mishra about him? What was she afraid of? Even as she voiced the question she knew the answer. She did not trust Chanakya.

Outside, it had stopped snowing and Murree was swathed in a blanket of white. Tall trees dotted the landscape at regular intervals, bare arms outstretched and festooned with snow droppings, against the backdrop of a snow-clad mountain range. Abruptly she swung her head from the landscape to the car’s interior. In her mind the snow-laden trees had started to swirl like dervishes. Next they blurred into one whorling white sheet that began to be speckled with red. Mehrunisa shut her eyes tight, left hand clasped tight over the kara on the right.

She was strong. She would survive and fight and come through. She would save her father and herself.
Nishchay kar apni jeet karo
. She could do it. She was strong. The snowy white of her surrounding dissolved to the white marble of
a pristine white gurudwara. A girl and her father emerged from its portal. The father had promised a story and they sat in the lush garden amidst which the Sikh temple was situated. She tucked into her pershad and listened how the British had built the Saragarhi Memorial Gurudwara to commemorate the twenty-one Sikhs who held off a ten thousand-strong Pathan army.

But how do twenty-one men fight ten thousand?

They will it. Their motto: nishchay kar apni jeet karo. Determine to win.

In her mind flashed that last image of her father: Harinder Singh Khosa, nattily attired, a silk kerchief in an Astaire fold in his breast pocket, his wrists and ankles shackled to the chair.

Mehrunisa knew what was at stake.