THE HUNT FOR KOHINOOR BOOK 2 OF THE THRILLER SERIES FEATURING MEHRUNISA (23 page)

AfPak Border

Wednesday 1:37 a.m.

Mehrunisa was trapped in a diaphanous billowing
drape that refused to part despite her endless flailing. She had been at it for hours, her limbs leaden, her mind fuzzy… Something was wrong, it was all wrong…

She stilled herself and breathed deeply. With effort she attempted to open her eyes – they seemed weighted in treacle. Darkness. She let her eyes soak up the black. But they kept shutting. She worked her other senses. Her arms were by her side. No wonder she’d felt stifled. The fingers twitched and crawled outwards. After an aeon they found an edge. A narrow bed. She was in it. Under a thick blanket.

She tried to prise her arms out of the blanket – they wouldn’t lift. Why was she feeling like a slug in stupor? Her captor. Yes, he shot repeatedly at Pratap. Then he hustled her through the dark of the Lahore Fort to his vehicle, jabbed an injection in her arm before depositing her in the back seat. After that, she went dead, until she spoke with Papa. Then dead again…

How much time had elapsed? Was Pratap –
alive
? A sob caught in her throat. Where was the Kohinoor? Had the attack been carried out? She sifted her dense mind for information. The attack was due on Thursday … what day was today?

The dark and the quiet were eerie. What place was this? The air was chilly and she felt a familiar buzz in her ears. She forced her mouth open in a yawn and stretched it wide until her ears popped. Yes.

Years spent in the mountains in her parents’ company – Zagros in Iran, the Alps in Italy, the Himalayas in Kashmir – told her she was in the mountains somewhere…

Pakistan-Occupied Kashmir

Wednesday 2:54 a.m.

The chopper flew steadily northwest towards Gurez.
It was one of the shortest infiltration routes from PoK into Kashmir, one that Harry had used at various points in his career with Indian intelligence. The two recent incursions into Pakistani air space hadn’t gone unnoticed by the host country – with adequate soothing noises Mishra had pacified his counterpart. An airdrop into Pakistani territory would be faster but Harry couldn’t risk this mission.

At Gurez, the river also changed its name from Kishen Ganga to the older Neelam. His plan was to take a raft from Gurez down into Neelam Valley. The 144-kilometre bow-shaped valley in the thickly forested region of ‘Azad Kashmir’ was the spot where Harry had first started working as an operative. The paradise that has been lost to the outside world for sixty years had become a hotbed of militant training camps, jihadis and counterinsurgents. It would be astonishing to consider that the Gurez Valley, surrounded by the lofty peaks of the Pir Panjal range, with its green meadows, pristine alpine lakes, pine forests and trout-filled aquamarine rivers, was home to a military. Once Gurez was a stop on the old Silk Route, which ran from Srinagar and Bandipora through Gurez, then on to Dras, Kargil, Leh, and Tibet. Now though, it was located right along the LoC, which had made it out of bounds for civilians and traders.

With his night vision goggles on, Harry watched as the chopper descended into the Gurez Valley from the 11,600-foot high Razdan Pass. Below, the Neelam River – Harry could never get the ‘proper’ name of Kishan Ganga, bequeathed on the river
after 1947 – flowed like a silver stream from the belly of Habba Khatoon, the perfect pyramid-shaped peak. The chopper landed in a clearing in a wooded area. Its blades kept spinning as Harry scrambled out.

The two escorts Mishra had provided were cooling their heels in Srinagar – Harry worked best on his own. By the time he was making for the riverbank, the chopper had disappeared from sight. The idea was to proceed as noiselessly as possible. It was his daughter’s life at stake and Harry could not afford even a whisper of his attempt to reach the jihadis who held her. For that reason he had refused Mishra’s escorts, or the option of distracting fire at another point on the LoC, one which would give him cover under which to sneak down the Neelam.

The river whooshed down, its force in winter considerably less than summer when it tumbled full of molten snow. A raft was secured some distance away, as pre-arranged. Harry cast a quick glance around, crouching in the grass as he squinted for any sign of life. All quiet except for the riversong.

Harry secured his backpack, slid the raft into the water and the next instant the current was taking him forward. Deftly he manoeuvred the slim raft with a paddle. The current was strong and took him along, Harry needing a few brisk paddles to guide it. If he faced no interruption, he would be near Muzzafarabad well before dawn. Despite the dark night and the layer of fog that encased him, Harry’s eyes were engaged in a constant reconnaissance of the surrounding area. This, his first step in the journey to FATA, was also the most dangerous. It required only one jihadi from the thousands in the hundred-plus training camps located in the Neelam Valley to spot him and things would deteriorate sharply. He was trusting his instinct, the river, and prior experience to lead him on as his ears and eyes worked the night for signs of the enemy.

At some point further down were rapids but Harry was still some distance away. In this stretch the river had narrowed. His weapon was in his shoulder holster – he could withdraw it in under a few seconds if required. In the midst of the riversong Harry picked up a faint whirring sound. A motor. Harry paddled swiftly to the right bank. Once there, he dragged the raft up the grassy slope and lay down flat in the high grass.

The whirr grew louder. Likely the outboard motor of a rubber pontoon, the kind Lashkar had started using to ferry infiltrators. The fog would provide cover unless the militants were looking for him. Soon a ten-foot long pontoon cut through the fog with one man at the motor and another seated at the rear with cargo. Likely arms and money that would be handed over to an aide or thrown over at some unguarded point across the LoC. Every winter, heavy snowfall and avalanches brought down the fence along the LoC. Come summer and the army simply erected new fences.

Harry waited for five minutes, trying to pick up the sound of another boat. None. He was about to get up when a sharp whistle sounded inches from his head. A shot. Flattening himself on the ground he swivelled his neck. A jihadi loomed over him, the barrel of an AK-47 in his face.

Pakistan-Occupied Kashmir

Wednesday 3:01 a.m.

With the swiftness of the animal whose moniker
he was crowned with, Harry spun, inclined his body upwards and simultaneously grabbed the barrel of the gun before it went off. The bullet landed in the grass and the next instant Harry had delivered a kick to the man’s groin. He doubled over. A sharp blow to the side of his face. The man rolled over and tumbled into the icy waters of the Neelam flowing rapidly downstream.

Harry crouched on the riverbank, assessing the foggy surrounding for another patrol. None. Stealthily he slipped the raft back into the waters and started downstream.

Well before dawn Harry had reached the outskirts of Muzzafarabad. The river had grown wider with the confluence with Jhelum at Domel and it was here that Harry had to get out. He dragged the raft up the riverbank and proceeded to hide it in the dense foliage of the surrounding woods. With luck, none would sight it. A moment to assess any unusual sounds in the mist of the alpine forest. Then he made for a lone hut that stood less than a kilometre away.

It belonged to a pastoralist, a wiry old man who went by the name of Pahalwan Shah. Harry had first made his acquaintance thirty years back. His name was a reflection of the humour inherent to the Kashmiri temperament. Or it was a desperate entreaty? Born after five of his siblings had passed prematurely, Pahalwan was named by his parents as an appeal to God to let him survive.

Indeed, Pahalwan had survived. In fact, Harry knew of no other man who was as hardy. He credited it to the medicinal herbs that grew in the pastures of the verdant valley. Pahalwan was a Dard-Shin, ethnically and culturally distinct from Kashmiris or Pakistani Punjabis and closer to the people of Gilgit and other regions of the Karakoram across the LoC.
Traditionally, the
Dard-Shin had no involvement in the militancy of the region, preferring to live in the manner of their forbears, cattle being their main source of livelihood.

A year into his work as a spy Harinder Singh Khosa was shot at while fleeing undercover through the Neelam Valley. Wounded, he sought shelter in an isolated hut. Under Harry’s guidance the pastoralist managed to pluck the bullet out of his shoulder. Then an exhausted Harry slept for two days straight, two days in which Pakistani soldiers came scouting for the Indian spy. But Harry was hidden by the husband and wife under pellets of straw. When Harry came to, he used the same river upstream to reach Indian Kashmir. But that act of kindness had sealed their friendship and Harry continued to frequent Pahalwan irregularly.

In the distance he sighted the lone hut, as ancient-looking as the first time he had seen it. A barn stood a short distance away. Inside was a loft where straw was stored. From the barn he would take a milk bucket and place it in front of the hut’s door – an agreed upon sign to Pahalwan that Harry was in the loft.

A couple of hours to rest his body before sunrise – after that there would be no sleep until he managed to rescue his daughter.

Muzaffarabad, Pakistan

Wednesday 6:10 a.m.

A creaking woke him up. The next instant his hands
were cradling a pistol, head cocked towards the ladder which led up to the loft. A throat was cleared, loud and deliberate, and it sounded out in the still pre-dawn air. Harry relaxed.

A samovar was deposited on the loft, followed by a woven basket and then a pair of thin arms hoisted a man up onto the loft. His face sported a smile, and though it was difficult to see in the dark, Harry could make out the contours of the henna-bearded face.

‘Pahalwan Shah,’ Harry said in greeting.

‘Janaab! Long time.’ Pahalwan Shah sat down beside Harry and poured out kehwa from the brass kettle into a tumbler. The aroma of crushed cinnamon and cardamom filled his nostrils. The invigorating green tea of the region was the best potion for a drowsy body. Harry accepted the hot drink gratefully and took a big bite out of the thick roti in the basket. They sat in silence. Besides his fealty, one reason for Pahalwan Shah’s longevity as Harry’s associate was that the man asked no questions, realizing that the less information he had, the better it was.

It was still dark outside. Harry’s phone beeped – an email from HQ with an attached file titled BK. The information on Babur Khan he had asked for. Quickly Harry skimmed through it – the confirmation he was seeking lay there: Babur Khan grew up in a Pashto-speaking household; his father, an Orakzai, hailed from Orakzai Agency, one of the seven federally administered tribal areas of Pakistan.

That would explain Babur Khan’s accent as he’d heard it over the phone.
If
the man was Babur Khan. But the lawless tribal area was the black hole into which many jihadis had wormed their way. It was where even Mullah Omar was rumoured to have sought refuge. Usually Harry planned each operation such that there was a Plan B and a Plan C to follow the original Plan A – success lay in planning for contingencies. In this case, time wasn’t on his side and failure wasn’t an option. Either way, the identity of the man wasn’t critical – as long as his deduction took him to the right location.

Harry crunched the slivers of almond that floated atop the kehwa and thought ahead. Peshawar was 190 kilometres from Muzzafarabad and if he were to fly it would take him less than an hour to reach. However, he did not have that luxury. Which left him with road transport. The terrain was dotted with hills and Harry would have to go down south to Islamabad first, a distance of 138 kilometres, and then take the M1 to Peshawar, another 155 kilometres away. The road to the capital was in good condition and he should be there in two hours. From there the M1 would serve him well. The motorway had a speed limit of 120 kmph. Another two hours and Harry would reach the infamous suburbs of Peshawar in four hours. A motorcycle was the quickest mode. And Harry knew exactly where to source one.

If an inquisitive person were to explore Pahalwan Shah’s barn he would be surprised to discover a rundown Yamaha in its basement. A ramp led down from the cowshed to a storage area stacked with buckets, a bicycle and the motorcycle that looked like it had seen better days. But looks are deceptive, and in this case they were intended to deceive. The Yamaha was two years old and serviced regularly by the pastoralist. However, Harry also made sure that the bike was deliberately made to look grey and peeling, which connived to give it an air of decay.

Harry finished the tea and fished two plastic packets out of the front pocket of his backpack. Whenever he could, he made sure to carry with him the gift of the two bags of spices: one contained anardaana, the dried seeds of the pomegranate fruit, and the other ajwain, the carom seed with the smell of thyme. Pahalwan like to chew on the pungent seeds; they aided his digestion. And his wife valued the ruby red seeds that were greatly prized in the region – according to the Quran it was the fabled fruit of Paradise. With a thick wad of Pakistani rupees, he handed the two bags to his host. Pahalwan Shah grinned amiably.

Harry pushed the bike up the ramp. The early morning twitter of birds was beginning to sound as he sat astride the motorcycle and kick-started it. A powerful roar burst forth. Harry had changed for the journey into a nondescript pair of black trousers and a grey windcheater jacket. His backpack was secured to the bike. Harry donned his helmet and looked at Pahalwan Shah, his right palm over his heart. Pahalwan Shah mimicked the gesture. Both men nodded wordlessly.

Then Harry was riding his way down the grassy plain to the dirt track that would connect him to the highway to Muzzafarabad.