THE HUNT FOR KOHINOOR BOOK 2 OF THE THRILLER SERIES FEATURING MEHRUNISA (20 page)

Sheesh Mahal, Lahore, Pakistan

Tuesday 7:10 p.m.

Deciding there was nothing more to be recovered
from Sheesh Mahal, R.P. Singh and Mehrunisa treaded cautiously out of the quadrangle. It was beyond closing time and they didn’t want to surprise an excitable guard with a gun. Mehrunisa had attempted to contact Jag Mishra on the crypto phone but the connectivity was poor. Perhaps it would improve once outside the ramparts of the fort…

They were on the broad shallow steps of Hathi Paer, where once the royal family, seated atop elephants, had entered the fort using their private entrance. It functioned as an exit now. Once at the Shah Burj Gate they’d need to figure out how to exit the fort without getting intercepted by the guards.

Singh kept the torch pointing down and ahead so they could manoeuvre the darkened path without drawing attention. The sound of distant traffic permeated the cool night air even as their footfall filled the immediate soundscape. Then chatter floated up, people conversing amiably amid the jingle of chains. Mehrunisa and Singh stilled as he switched the torch off. They sidled against the wall.

The sounds indicated guards changing shift. Footsteps could now be heard approaching. Mehrunisa’s heart thudded loudly. Where could they hide? She shut her eyes and attempted to remember the layout of the Lahore Fort from the map she’d glanced at earlier at entry.

Alamgiri Gate, through which they’d entered – Diwan-e-Aam, which they strode through, ignoring the museum – onward to Diwan-e-Khas – then the Ladies Court before they reached the quadrangle housing the Sheesh Mahal…

On the steps, they were trapped. Retreating into the quadrangle they’d just left wasn’t a good idea – the guard would likely poke around the Palace of Mirrors, the biggest attraction in the fort. Beyond that lay the Ladies Courtyard, where traditionally the emperor met with his harem. It must have been opulent then but now it was barren as bare stone...

Gripping Pratap’s wrist Mehrunisa guided him up the stairs, through the quadrangle and into the courtyard. The tap-tapping of the guard’s thick stick on the floor followed them faintly. The torch was switched off but to their right was a khilwat khana, the royal bath housed in a curved-roof enclosure. Mehrunisa crept towards it, followed by Pratap, and entered through an open doorway. A quick use of the torch showed a water tank in the centre. Pratap motioned Mehrunisa towards it. As she crouched inside, the sound of footfall grew louder. Pratap pocketed the torch and she saw him sidle into a corner, the glint of pistol in his hand.

Tap-tap-TAP-TAP-TAP-tap-tap-tap…

As Mehrunisa had reckoned, the guard ambled through the courtyard without entering the bath. They waited until the sound of his tapping stick had died. Mehrunisa leapt out of the tub as Pratap shone the torch around them. The interior was expectedly bare. On the opposite wall was a casement that must look out onto the gardens and the boundary wall. As she approached it, the torch beam behind her, she saw her reflection in the tall glass, the octagonal casket clutched in her left hand.

From somewhere, Aziz Mirza’s voice floated into her head:
The only thing the General trusted was a mirror.

Abruptly, Mehrunisa extricated the scroll from the casket, straightened it out before holding it against her chest, the text reflecting in the glass mirror in front. ‘No, don’t move!’ she exclaimed to Pratap who looked about to approach her.

With narrowed eyes, she studied the reflected text. But, of course! A smile spread on her face: the text was gibberish no more. It was Urdu written in reverse in some code – the letters were legible in the mirror.

Not comprehensible though.

Federally Administered Tribal
Areas (FATA), Pakistan

Tuesday 7:10 p.m.

Mansur Masud had a curious habit: he played with
fire. And kept it close, next to his abdomen really. An earthen pot filled with hot embers snuggled within his wool blanket even as he handled electrical wires, mortar shells, old mines, batteries, chemicals, powders. Afghanistan’s winters were brutal but he’d picked up the habit of kangri in Kashmir where he had volunteered for jihad after driving the Russians out. He joined the war against the Soviets when he was eight and was eighteen when they left in 1989. A career jihadi needs jihad – when the call came to join the uprising in Kashmir against the idolatrous occupiers, he responded.

Over several winters of fighting the Indian army, Masud had learnt that his best friend on the gelid slopes, besides his AK-47, was the kangri. When he returned to join the Taliban it was the only thing he brought back with him from Kashmir. Then the Amrikaayi arrived to hunt Bin Laden.

In one of the attacks at Safed Koh he lost one leg – which would have ended his relatively long life as a jihadi, but for the discovery of his facility for cooking. Masud was recuperating in his village when he met a jihadi who had returned home from lending a helping hand in Iraq. Marshalling leftovers of war into lethal bombs was his specialty – he recruited Masud as the cook’s assistant. And Masud discovered that the loss of one limb could reveal the potential of others.

Mixing powders, sifting wires, gauging the thickness and malleability of metals, he rediscovered the use of his hands. From a rudimentary education in the art of IED, Masud went on to develop his talent for improvising explosive devices such that he was now referred to, in jihadi circles, as the ‘Bom Pir’ – the high priest of bombs. Which was more than just a jokey epithet – hadn’t the IED forced the Amrikaayi to exit Iraq on their knees? And wasn’t the waslay, assembled like food in a kitchen, sending more of their soldiers back home in coffins?

From his position within the cave Masud looked out. Night-time training was in progress – increasing Amrikaayi military operations at night mandated that. A powdery snow was drifting even as men in battle fatigues crept along the icy ground, slithering forward on elbows and knees, their guns aloft in their hands. In the patchy halos of naked light bulbs he glimpsed soldiers rappelling down a cliff face so sharp it was a wonder they weren’t getting sliced. ‘Allah hu Akbar’ rang out periodically. Ricocheting off the bare rock and icy ground, and hurled around by the chill wind, the cries could be summons to prayer, a non-stop azaan. It was a holy war – something the infidels never understood.

Vicarious adrenaline surged. Stretched out on an icy slope, vicious wind lacerating exposed skin, sleet blinding him, an infidel soldier in his crosshairs – a sigh escaped Masud. Until his eyes took in the work-in-progress cradled in his lap. His battle with the occupiers was going well – the IEDs Mansur made and instructed others in were killing the Amrikaayi soldiers. As his commander Babur Khan was wont to say: the infidels can win every battle and yet would lose the war.

Now Masud adjusted the kangri, settling it against a less-warm part of his chest, as he reminisced. The mandate was simple: Babur Khan needed sufficient explosive power to blow up something big, dense and concrete. The supplies were all there: RDX, TNT, Semtex, cans, metal pipes, copper plates… Masud’s face lit up at his recollection – Bom Pir loved a challenge. A couple of months back Babur Khan had huddled with him for two hours over diagrams and sheets of paper and even used some fancy gibberish alphabet soup for what he had in mind, a weapon that would be unstoppable.

Masud didn’t need to know the language of the Amrikaayi to devise that unstoppable weapon. He had a name for it and had experimented with ingredients until he could deliver Babur Khan’s vision. The prototype tested had blown the roof off a rock cave.

Zulfikar.

Like the bifurcated sword of Ali, it would be the ultimate weapon of this jihad.

Sheesh Mahal, Lahore, Pakistan

Tuesday 7:18 p.m.

Mehrunisa studied the text, brow furrowed, eyes
skimming over the letters – each familiar, yet gibberish when put together. What code was it? She picked a four-letter word and transposed the letters, attempting to locate the algorithm. No. Next she shifted the letters by one: alif to bay, bay to pay… Still, the text made no sense.

‘Any lead?’ Pratap asked as he shone the torch on the scroll.

Mehrunisa held up a hand requesting for silence. Could it be? It was after all one of the most popular substitution ciphers… Back to the text, transposing each letter by three places this time: alif to tay, bay to ttay, pay to say… Bingo! She smiled at Pratap and continued reading the text excitedly.

However, what the scroll said was not pretty. Of the two scrolls, one dealt with a situation in Kandahar, a planned infiltration by the Taliban into the Afghan Local Police, an initiative by the US troops. Dismissing this, she moved to the one with the rough sketch. Her jaw tightened as it confirmed Jag Mishra’s suspicions: an attack on Indian soil was planned and it was imminent, scheduled for the coming Thursday. And what Mishra had been desperate to know, the location, was revealed on the paper: the Bhakra Nangal dam.

Located across the Sutlej river, on the border of the northern Indian states of Punjab and Himachal Pradesh, the dam was Asia’s largest.

Mehrunisa scrutinized the text with care. It was cryptic, with few details. It mentioned ‘Gobind Sagar Lake’, next ‘boats’, and ‘ammunition’.

Meanwhile, her mind was processing the ghastly secret of the Kohinoor: it was a harbinger of devastation on an unforeseen scale. The dam was also a picnic spot and popular area for school trips. And winter saw peak traffic! Visitors to the dam would have to be stopped immediately. It was imperative that Mishra be alerted right away so that the counter terror team could swing into action.

‘Mehrunisa?’ Pratap’s voice brought her out of her shocked reverie. ‘Do you have the key?’

She nodded and divulged what the scroll said. Pratap shone the torch on the map sketched on the back page of the scroll. The water body that was sketched would be Gobind Sagar Lake. A couple of boats were drawn on the water and encircled. Would the attack be by means of boats? After the terror attack in Mumbai in 2008, hadn’t the government stepped up security at key facilities such as airports, dams? She studied Pratap’s furrowed face anxiously.

‘Are you certain?’ Pratap asked. ‘Perhaps there is another key? And how did you figure the cipher?’

‘I’m positive,’ Mehrunisa said. ‘There are seldom two ciphers which can yield legible text. The General probably never expected anyone to reach the Kohinoor without his knowledge – which could be why he used a popular cipher. Caesar shift. First used by Julius Caesar for military correspondence.’

‘They teach you ciphers in Renaissance studies?’

‘Papa taught me. When he’d return from one of his frequent trips there would be a gift hidden for me in the house. And like a game of treasure hunt there’d be clues scattered all over the house which needed deciphering – riddles, codes, symbols…’ She looked at him ruefully, ‘It wasn’t all a game, hunh? The Snow Leopard was passing on some essential skills to the cub…’

Returning to the scroll, she tapped the sketched boat, ‘Would this be enough to bring down a dam?’

‘IB did pick up a terror threat to Bhakra dam – Pakistan-based terror groups were engaged in exercises that involved cliff climbing, underwater swimming and underwater detonations. Apparently they were to time the monsoon season when the water level is highest…’ Singh paused, one hand on his pate. ‘We’re well into winter now.’

‘And this would be the first time a dam has been attacked, right?’

‘In the subcontinent it’s certainly going to be a first.’

Mehrunisa’s tongue flicked out as her mind conjured improbable scenarios. ‘What happens if the dam is breached?’

Pratap’s palm patted his bald pate before he looked up. ‘After 26/11 RAW worked out threat perception to various strategic locations in India. It estimated that a breach of Bhakra Nangal – regarded as the highest gravity dam in the world – would release enough water to flood the whole of Chandigarh and large parts of Punjab, Haryana and Delhi.’

As Mehrunisa gasped, he continued, ‘It will mean certain war. We should inform–’

‘Mehrunisa!’

A voice cut through the darkening air. It was high-pitched, accompanied by briskly approaching feet. As Pratap swung his torch in the direction of the sound, a man wearing thick-framed spectacles rushed towards them.

Pratap cussed his stupidity. So intent was he on examining the scroll he had forgotten they’d be sitting ducks to anyone, silhouetted neatly in the arched doorway of the bath!

Sheesh Mahal, Lahore, Pakistan

Tuesday 7:33 p.m.

‘Saby?’ Mehrunisa said, taken by surprise at the
sudden
arrival on the scene of the
young scientist she had first met in Jag Mishra’s office. They had met briefly again, just hours back, when he came to pick up Raghav from the Murree shrine.

‘You know him?’ R.P. Singh asked, one hand resting on the holster hidden under his jacket.

Mehrunisa nodded. ‘He’s from the office.’

Saby came to an abrupt halt in front of them, grinning from Mehrunisa to R.P. Singh. ‘Mehrunisa, it’s good to see you safe.’

‘How’s Raghav?’

‘In post-op care now. Doctor says he’ll recover fully.’

Nodding, Mehrunisa muttered, ‘Khodaya shokret.’ ‘Thank God’ in Farsi.

‘So,’ Saby said
with a shrug, ‘you have it?’

Mehrunisa nodded. ‘How did you know?’

‘Boss has faith in you Mehrunisa,’ Saby grinned. ‘Also, he couldn’t wait. We should be on our way. The car is outside. A drive of an hour and we will reach our pickup point where the chopper’s waiting.’ He swivelled on his feet. ‘Let’s go!’

‘A minute,’ R.P. Singh interceded. ‘How did you evade the guards?’

‘Oh!’ Saby shrugged. ‘I had help.’

‘What sort?’ Singh enquired with narrowed eyes.

‘I was told that Mehrunisa would get possession of sensitive information, which might be intercepted. In which case, I’d need assistance to ensure that any such attempt was thwarted. As you can see,’ he bared his teeth in the semblance of a smile, ‘I am not much of a martial type.’

Singh tilted his head at Saby. ‘And your bodyguard–’

‘Is taking care of the fort guards. Ah!’ He extended his hand in the dark. Sharply clicking heels. As the man came closer, his face became visible. Clean-shaven lantern jaw, crew-cut hair, dressed in the military fatigues of the US army – the man gave a quick smile as he extended a hand towards R.P. Singh. ‘Sergeant Argento of the US army. I was told you might be in need of assistance.’

R.P. Singh regarded the soldier, his hand firmly by his side.

Saby said perkily, ‘Oh, my mistake. I should have given you the background. The sergeant is here as part of Yudh Abhyan, you know, the joint Indo-US military drill.’

Singh continued to listen with narrowed eyes while Mehrunisa looked from one man to the other, perplexed. From a lean operation, it had suddenly bloated, that too with an unknown American thrown in.

‘Yudh Abhyan is the biggest joint military exercise to combat terror. It’s taking place in–’

‘Babina,’ Singh completed. ‘So why is the sergeant here?’

‘He is to join the team in India from his base in Bagram. He’s been,’ he screwed his eyes in the direction of the US army man, ‘what’s the official term?’

‘Requisitioned,’ Sergeant Argento said smoothly. ‘I am to join Yood Abayan. Since your man was flying over, I was ordered to take a lift.’ he flicked open his wallet and showed Singh his identity card. His face wore a tight smile as Singh perused it.

‘Mishra didn’t send an Indian agent with you?’ Singh asked of Saby.

‘The sergeant was to join us. And the Cheetah is good for four pax. Chopper,’ he added at Mehrunisa’s befuddled expression. ‘Shall we then?’ Saby urged, his right index finger tapping at the face of his wristwatch.

They fell in step with him. Mehrunisa said, ‘I need to speak with Jag Mishra right away.’

‘Sure,’ Saby nodded, ‘let’s get to the car first. He glanced at the sergeant who walked stiffly, his eyes scanning the grounds.

They hurried through the gardens, Saby and Mehrunisa ahead, followed by Singh and Argento. Singh felt uneasy. The sudden appearance of two men, both strangers, yet claiming an association, had set off an alarm within him. Mehrunisa had hunted down the Kohinoor successfully, cracked the code and was poised to avert the terror attack. The arrival of the two men at such a propitious time seemed rather strategic, too tidy... But perhaps he was overreacting: Saby, the young tech guy from Indian intelligence, was on mission, and Sgt. Argento was supposedly just a passenger… Singh’s right hand was on his pistol holster beneath the bomber jacket as he padded behind Mehrunisa, working his way through his disquiet.

In the dim light of the torch that Saby held, the towering thick walls of the fort seemed to be crowding in. Ahead, Mehrunisa and Saby turned a corner and for that moment Singh lost sight of her. As he broke into a jog he heard Mehrunisa call out –
Oh!
– followed by Saby’s voice, ‘I got you!’

Singh’s eyes were focused on Mehrunisa as he approached her. They had come to a halt under a lamppost. She seemed to have stumbled for Saby was holding her from behind, his right arm around her waist. ‘You okay?’ he called out, the anxiety making his voice shrill.

Mehrunisa did not reply. Instead she seemed to be strangely still, her shoulders hunched as if in fright. Singh made to move forward when he felt a jab in his back and a sharp command. ‘Don’t move.’