THE HUNT FOR KOHINOOR BOOK 2 OF THE THRILLER SERIES FEATURING MEHRUNISA (19 page)

Lahore, Pakistan

Tuesday 6 p.m.

By the time they reached Lahore it was evening,
Mehrunisa had regained her composure, and rush hour had begun. Pratap weaved the motorcycle through choked traffic, Mehrunisa twitched her wrist periodically to slow down time. Through the ride they had kept an eye on the rear-view mirror and stopped on a couple of occasions to assess whether they were being followed.

‘Do you think he knows you are travelling to Lahore?’

‘In which case, surely we would have sighted him?’ Mehrunisa looped the turquoise pashmina twice around her neck and tucked the loose ends into her jacket.

‘Not if he’s using a bus. It’d be the most anonymous way to travel.’

‘In which case the protest at Gujranwala would have held him up.’

‘Likely.’

But the assailant of the morning seemed to have gone off the radar. Which worried Pratap. ‘He is obviously following a plan.’

They had come to a halt at a traffic junction where a policeman was attempting to direct the madness to a semblance of orderly motion.

‘But you’re assuming he knows we were heading to Lahore,’ Mehrunisa said.

An abrupt honking started. The vehicles in front had started to move and Pratap had committed the cardinal sin of staying rooted. He joined the slow motion forward. ‘He could have overheard your conversation with Raghav – remember he was stalking the two of you in the large gathering without either of you being aware. Or a few enquiries of the Nasheen’s staff might deliver results.’

‘The staff wouldn’t know, except for the two bodyguards.’

‘I wouldn’t bank upon that. Doubtless the men were married and informed their wives they were travelling out of city. Or mentioned it in passing to one of their comrades. Or the assailant might have an informer in the large retinue of servants and hangers-on. He did manage to track you down to Murree in the first place.’

They were riding smoothly now along Fort Road towards the walled city which housed Lahore Fort. Most traffic was heading towards the newer part of the city. Mehrunisa shouted to be heard above the roar of the traffic, ‘He might show up at the fort you think?’ Ahead the ramparts of the fort were silhouetted against the orange-blipped dark horizon.

At the fort, Singh proceeded to the parking lot near the main entrance of Alamgiri Gate. As he removed his helmet he tipped his wrist for time. ‘Either way, you have a short window in which to test your hypothesis and secure the Kohinoor.’ As they started briskly towards the gate, he said, ‘Half an hour.’

‘Who do you think this jihadi is?’

R.P. Singh shrugged. ‘Whoever he is, he is bent on preventing you from locating this Kohinoor. Which means that he wants the terror attack to happen as planned. Now which cog in the wheel is he… What did Mishra say?’

‘He suspects a nexus between LeT and rogue ISI men. They orchestrated 26/11. Now the Pakistan Taliban could be another element in that mix.’

Having purchased their tickets – after the person at the booth advised them to return the following day since it was almost closing time – they hurried through the verdant gardens of Hazuri Bagh. The history of Sheesh Mahal scrolled through Mehrunisa’s mind – she had the trained ability of a scholar and docent who could recall entire history lessons others had slumbered through. The crystal palace was reputedly one of the most remarkable pavilions in the north-western corner of the complex. Its original purpose was to serve as a
shah burj
, king’s pavilion, where the sultan would discuss state affairs with his closest courtiers. It consisted of apartments roofed with cupolas and decorated in a mirror mosaic style,
ayina kari
, with thousands of small mirrors. What interested her was the central portion of the façade that was reputedly in good condition to this day. Composed of five cusped marble arches supported by coupled columns in marble, its ceiling was inlaid with mirrors and precious stones.

‘Some other friends might turn up…’ Pratap scanned their surrounding with narrowed eyes as they hurried forward.

As Mehrunisa looked at him searchingly, he added, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised to see somebody from the ISI or Pakistani army. Hasn’t the Kohinoor historically had several claimants?’

‘How would they even know?’

‘Surveillance. They snoop on each other’s communication networks all the time.’

The fort wore a deserted look. Closing time in winter was expectedly quiet, Mehrunisa was happy to note. Sheesh Mahal loomed in front, its marble pavilion hazy in the ill-lit courtyard. A family was departing as they hurried forward. A low grille enclosed the structure to discourage visitors from entering.

Mehrunisa surveyed the semi-octagonal pavilion determining where to begin. As Singh joined her she said, ‘I trust you’ll handle any visitors. I don’t feel sociable.’ With that she vaulted over the grille and into the glass palace.

Sheesh Mahal, Lahore, Pakistan

Tuesday 6:22 p.m.

Mehrunisa glanced back at the courtyard. Stragglers
had departed, including any security guard on daytime patrol. Pratap had positioned himself in the courtyard, his eyes on the narrow doorway through which any visitor could arrive.

Mehrunisa gazed up at the ceiling. Despite the crepuscular light, it glinted. Tiny inlaid mirrors presented a star-studded vault. Under which the emperor and his consorts would have relaxed, as they lounged on silken covers and watched their own bejewelled night sky.

She walked through the pavilion, her eyes picking the mosaic work on the peeling walls. Where would a person hide something here, in public view and yet discreet? The hall was originally decorated with fresco paintings that were later replaced with glass mosaic
in different colours. Ranjit Singh, the Sikh maharaja, had chosen Sheesh Mahal, the gem within Lahore Fort, as worthy of displaying the famed Kohinoor. Coming to a halt in the centre, she looked up. If the person were a modern-day President, who wished instead to conceal a Kohinoor in the palace of mirrors, where would he situate it? The mirrors caught the fading light and twinkled back at her: anywhere!

Ahead were a scaffold and a rolling ladder. Which was not unusual. Historic buildings needed regular maintenance. Besides, the Sheesh Mahal had seen additional constructions under subsequent Sikh and British rulers of Punjab, which had made the building more vulnerable. It was now a UNESCO World Heritage site, which would account for the funds needed for upgrade. A horn blared in the distance. The sky was darkening briskly – she scouted around the pavilion for a light switch. None. Clearly not meant for night-time viewing. She glanced around, hands akimbo, and sighted a placard to the right of the entrance.

As she scrambled towards it Pratap enquired with raised brows – everything okay? Nodding, she started to read.

UNESCO-NORWAY-GOVT OF PUNJAB PROJECT

Conservation of Shish Mahal

After the successful conservation of Shish Mahal ceiling during the first phase of the project, the work of restoration and stabilization of stucco tracery and mirror work including the scientific cleaning of marble elements in the Shish Mahal is in progress.

Mehrunisa chewed her inner lip as she struggled to grasp the kernel of thought that was just outside her reach... The twitter of birds filled the air as the sound of azaan floated through. …
first phase of the project
… But of course! It was the General who had initiated the conservation project.

Mehrunisa bounded back into Sheesh Mahal and glanced up. It was dark. She grabbed a torch from her backpack; it fell from her hands and dropped to the floor. The ensuing sound had Pratap dashing down. Sighting her spread-eagled on the marble floor, his strangled cry pierced the night air, ‘MEHRU-nisa!’

With an outstretched arm, she patted the air. ‘I’m okay! This investigation is best served on my back.’

Mehrunisa shone her torch on the ceiling. Its powerful beam cut a swathe through the darkness and lit up the mirrors. She heard Professor Kaul’s voice:
The abundant use of mirrors by the Mughals is often attributed by historians to splendour, fantasy, etcetera. Incorrectly so. For in those days of no electricity, one candle could light up the whole pavilion, revealing what would otherwise lay hidden.

And the beauty of a ceiling such as this could only be appreciated by lying down and gazing at it from that perspective. Just as it was, she had figured years earlier, for the Sistine Chapel as well.

As a docent at the Vatican, a visit to Sistine Chapel was de rigeur.
The Last Judgement
on the sanctuary wall and the
Creation of Adam
painted by Michelangelo on the ceiling were defining highlights of the tour. Arguably, those were the most renowned artworks of the High Renaissance. However, at any time of the year, the chapel was jam-packed with eager tourists, barely able to breathe as they craned their necks to view the frescoes overhead. Hadn’t Michelangelo developed goitre from painting the ceiling?

She had been luckier. As an art student, she had visited the chapel in the low season of January. Stretched out on the floor, she spent a day gazing up, taking in the details of the scenes from the Book of Genesis, surely the most-widely copied in the world.

Mehrunisa moved the torch slowly, methodically along the ceiling, studying the mirror work. The cold from the marble froze her head even as it seeped through her leather jacket. Abruptly she plucked the pashmina shawl from around her neck, rolled it into a ball and used it to cushion her head. She resumed her study of the ceiling. If one had to hide something, the place should be easy to recall. She traced the interlacing pattern of the mirrors with her eye and torch, seeking its origin. Right in the centre of the roof, where the arches met, was the central nucleus from which the interlacing pattern of mirrors branched outwards. Bingo!

Mehrunisa shot up from the floor, dragged the rolling ladder, positioned it in the centre of the room, and, torch in her mouth, started to climb. The ladder creaked loudly. Pratap bounded into the pavilion, his hands gripped the rickety ladder. She scrutinized the ceiling closely. The central circle gave rise to an eight-triangled star from which the interlacing pattern spread outward as the ceiling curved.

Right in the centre of the mosaic was a small hook. To reach it Mehrunisa had to climb higher. She stepped up the ladder, making it groan alarmingly. Below Pratap’s furrowed brow had sprouted perspiration. Extending her arm, she tugged at the hook. It held firm. Inching herself higher, the rung protesting, she traced her fingers along the innermost circle in the mosaic. Cool, smooth, glass – much too evenly melded. She cupped the piece with her extended fingers and spun her hand clockwise. Nothing.

Her neck was complaining, she’d have to stop soon. A downward movement, a brief swivel of the neck before she resumed, this time pushing the circle upwards and anti-clockwise. She felt the piece move. It was designed like a bulb holder. Several rotations later, the piece fell loose in her hand, held to the roof by a strong wire. A hidden compartment!

Mehrunisa probed it with her fingers, felt something, and extracted the object gently. An octagonal kaleidoscope, six inches long, two inches wide. As she was gazing at it, a loud bang shattered the night air. Startled, Mehrunisa stumbled, her torch rattling to the floor. The pavilion was plunged into darkness. The ladder groaned, shuddered. Mehrunisa fumbled, attempting to get a grasp with her right hand. She felt her fingers slide against the rail, then free fall as she toppled back. Hands scissoring the air, she plunged downwards.

Sheesh Mahal, Lahore, Pakistan

Tuesday 7:03 p.m.

In the instance that Mehrunisa plunged downwards,
R.P. Singh pushed the ladder away, bent his knees slightly and extended his arms. As she made contact with him he sank with her to the floor, his left arm buffeting her head, the right under her waist as they slumped on the cool marble in a tangled heap of limbs.

Rattled, Mehrunisa stared open-mouthed at Pratap’s face hovering over her. She was shaken, her backside complained from the knock but it was Pratap who had borne the brunt of the fall. However, he made no attempt to let go. Mehrunisa craned her neck.

Hunkered down, Singh scanned the surrounding darkness. Several loud bangs followed in rapid succession. The rat-a-tat, however, came from a distance… Otherwise, all lay still. Could it be a celebratory firing at some wedding? It was marriage season, and aerial firing figured prominently in the merrymaking…

Singh uncoiled himself from Mehrunisa and helped her sit up on the floor, dazed but unhurt. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered attempting to straighten her hair with one hand. Singh nodded as he kneaded his forearms.

‘Are you hurt?’ she enquired anxiously.

‘Well, you aren’t exactly a featherweight.’ Singh had located the torch and was jabbing at the switch. Then he tapped it against his palm and it came to life.

Mehrunisa grimaced. ‘But how did you know what to do? I mean, how do you anticipate and respond so quickly to something like this?’

‘Reflexes, Watson.’ With the torchlight, he indicated the octagonal object still clutched in her right hand. ‘That was some neat deduction.’

‘Holmesian,’ she grinned as she fingered the narrow casket. At one end was a thin crevice that ran around the casket. She wedged it with a thumb and sure enough it moved up. Tugging it, she opened the casket, tilted it over and out slid a couple of slim scrolls. Singh bent forward as Mehrunisa unfurled one paper. Something was written on it, in a flowing seemingly Middle Eastern script, except… As she scrutinized it closely she knew it was neither Arabic nor Persian nor Urdu. She pulled back and gave it a once-over; still, it wasn’t any script she could read. The text was gibberish, yet there was something vaguely familiar in the minute, detailed, deliberate letters… She checked the other scroll – similar.

She flipped it over, and gasped. Singh, his brow furrowed, studied it intently. A sketch of a water body, mountains and a – waterfall? The text underneath was again in that singular script.

‘The script doesn’t make sense,’ Singh said as he read her face. ‘Likely, it’s coded. The General wouldn’t go to such trouble to hide it and then have the contents written in plain Urdu.’ He tapped the scroll. ‘But every code has a key that unlocks it. What is the key Mehrunisa?’