THE HUNT FOR KOHINOOR BOOK 2 OF THE THRILLER SERIES FEATURING MEHRUNISA (26 page)

Bhakra Dam, India

Wednesday 10:18 a.m.

It was his day off and he was spending it as he had
the
last few months. A trek up the mountain brought him to a dhaba from where he had 5-star-resort-worthy views of Gobind Sagar Lake, reservoir of Bhakra Dam. Here he would have his morning tea and aloo-poori for breakfast and review his readiness for Kohinoor.

The chilly air of the Shivalik hills tickled his nose – Abu was a man from the sweltering Deccan plateau – and he took a noisy sip of the sugary tea, the vapours wafting to his face. An entire village was submerged to create the lake – once released, the water would go as far as the capital Delhi, drowning everything in its path. It was an audacious plan but highly probable – what was shocking was the ease with which they would be able to mount it…

Dam security had been the big concern – after all, it was India’s most prestigious dam, declared a ‘temple’ by Nehru, and a known target of terrorists. But no, Abu slurped the last of his tea, the dam security was as much of a mess as the rest of the country. First, security was split amongst the police forces of the three states that adjoined the dam: Punjab, Himachal Pradesh and Haryana. Indian intel had recommended that the Central Industrial Security Force take over, but the states couldn’t agree on how to apportion the costs of CISF personnel.

Ha!

A laugh burst out of Abu and rang loudly in the thin air. One of the dhaba boys grinned in his direction, brows raised and Abu waved him off good-naturedly. Hindustan. Absurdistan, he grinned to himself. Due to the inter-state wrangling, the CISF had a nominal presence at the dam.

He opened the folded newspaper he’d carried up with him and re-read with pleasure.

Officials say Bhakra Dam security satisfactory

Chandigarh: Newly-appointed chairman of Bhakra-Beas Management Board (BBMB) D.K. Gupta said he was satisfied with the security arrangements at the Bhakra Dam in Himachal Pradesh. ‘IB (Intelligence Bureau) and the power ministry are jointly working in this direction. I have already visited the dam and am totally satisfied with the arrangements. Security forces have been deployed there by the state government,’ Gupta told reporters here.

He added: ‘The Bhakra Dam is not the only one facing threat but other national projects in Jammu and Kashmir, Northeast and in other parts of northern India are also facing threats. IB officials are going there on regular visits and looking after the security arrangements and other aspects.’

Security at the Bhakra Dam was beefed up in March last year following reports from the central intelligence agencies that terrorist outfit Lashkar-e-Taiba (LeT) intended to target the mega hydro-electric project. The 225-metre high dam is located about 20 kilometres from Nangal town in Punjab. The dam on the Sutlej River lies along Himachal Pradesh’s border with Punjab.

‘Periodic meetings are held and security agencies give us various directions and suggestions to maintain foolproof security – for example to enhance night surveillance, instal spike barriers, metal detectors and various other gadgets,’ pointed out Gupta, who became BBMB chairman last month.

Abu could have guffawed but that might draw more glances so he satisfied himself with a smirk as he ran through what he had learnt during his six months at Bhakra.

There was no electronic surveillance at the dam, apparently because neither the Himachal Pradesh nor Punjab government was keen to foot the bill. Abu wasn’t the enabler – it was these politicians who were the real handlers. But for their permanent need to line their pockets, his task would be tougher. But then, the biggest enemy of this country was its leaders. And where did the leaders come from? Not outer space – they sprang from within the people and this entire infidel country was destined to ruin. Petty idolaters! They would worship anything that moved, from monkey to cow, or didn’t move, stone phallus to fornicating sculptures. Ansari’s mouth twisted. When not worshiping their idols these Hindus were busy butchering Muslims.

What this country needed was an iron hand, like that of the great Mughals – the last time the land was great – under the guidance of Islam. Inshallah, they would get there. The killings of the Muslims hadn’t gone unnoticed. Funds had come from wealthy Islamic nations that wanted vengeance. And Abu Ansari had discovered many youths eager to join the cause–

A hand was thrust in front of him.

Abu looked up at the dhaba owner who was smiling, ‘Prashad, from Naina Devi.’

Abu nodded, extended his right palm, ate dutifully, smiled blandly. Looking at him none would gauge his real thoughts. Naina Devi, the temple perched above, at adequate height for the all-seeing Goddess! Did she see what lay ahead?

Adezai, Pakistan

Wednesday 11 a.m.

In the years that Harry had known Abdus Malik his
stature had grown. It was reflected in the brickwalled, iron-gated compound of his home. An anti-aircraft gun was stationed on the flat roof of the house and pointed towards the Taliban. When Harry rode up on his motorcycle, gun-toting guards stopped him at a barricade half a kilometre from the house.

Abdus Malik was a mayor now, with the security trappings required to keep a man safe in this part of the world. Especially a man who had stood up to the Taliban and was now waging a war with them. His men were on the frontline of terror, a wall between the Taliban and Peshawar. If the wall were to fall, the Taliban would take just two days to reach Peshawar. Adjoining Adezai was Darra Adam Khel, a Taliban-held, arms-making town, and beyond that was Orakzai, another semi-autonomous tribal agency, where several leaders of the Pak Taliban were holed up.

People familiar with the region, whose loyalties were not dictated by their religion, were abundantly clear of the fact that the several fundamentalist and terror groups that had proliferated in the past decade were all working under the broad canopy of Taliban. This syndicate of terror was headquartered on the AfPak border and it was looking to destabilize both these countries in an effort to seize control. Simultaneously, it was looking to sow terror in the Hindu-majority nation of India and bring it under its sway. If they managed to spread chaos in the nation of a billion-plus people it would be a significant beachhead from where to progress their vision of conquering the world through anarchy. The fact that Abdus Malik was waging his part of the battle on the border meant that he continued to be on the same page as Harry.

The only message Harry sent for the mayor was ‘Jamrud, 1988’. Minutes later he was ushered through the house into a comfortable living area. A fireplace crackled in the hearth where Harry warmed his hands. Tea was brought in with information that the mayor would be joining him soon. Harry gazed into the fire and thought through his plan.

Abdus Malik was critical to the operation he had in mind. Assuming the attack occurred early Thursday, he had around sixteen hours in which to ferret out the exact location of Mehrunisa’s hideout and rescue her. Scouring the entire FATA, an area of roughly 30,000 square kilometres, wasn’t a possibility. He needed to source intel on some new movement in the hilly region which would point to a woman’s kidnapping. Unless he got lucky, that would entail an army of men fanning out to get the requisite information. Once the information was in hand and they had established where Mehrunisa was being held, Harry would require assistance in getting his daughter out. Which would require an arsenal and armed men who would follow his plan and command.

Abdus Malik was a warlord and a feared one at that. He had been rightfully hailed as the one man holding the Taliban at bay from Peshawar. Men and ammunition were not a problem. What Harry needed was for Abdus Malik to buy into his plan. He needed the Pahstun to take it upon himself as his personal endeavour. For that Harry would have to draw him in gently. Without explicitly reminding the Pathan of the time when he had saved the lives of his wife and son, Harry would have to get Malik to see that the time had come to redeem his pledge.

And he would have to do it the right way. The old Afghan adage was sacred: With love you could persuade a Pathan to go to Hell, but by force you couldn’t even take him to Heaven.

Adezai, Pakistan

Wednesday noon

Over a lavish meal of chicken kebabs and biryani,
Harry filled Malik in on the geopolitics of the region as seen by India. About the new trend for winter infiltrations into Kashmir and the proliferation of terror camps in PoK. He spoke about 26/11, the terror attack in Mumbai that had escalated hostility between their two countries. They discussed the Americans and how the border region between Afghanistan and Pakistan was rife with violence.

After he had warmed up his old friend thus, Harry began to talk about himself and his life. He skirted over the fact of his memory loss, but talked about the family life he had kept carefully hidden from Malik thus far. He talked about the death of his wife, his daughter growing up without the presence of her father, her work, and finally the dangerous mission to which she had been assigned, as a fill-in for her wounded father. Harry did not provide the finer details – Malik would not need to know those. Between them it was understood that while a lot was left unsaid, what was spoken was the truth. Harry finished by providing the details of Mehrunisa’s kidnapping, the place and location from where she was taken, the demands of her kidnapper and how Harry had tracked him to the region.

Then he sat silently. His hand had a tremor when he took a whiff of the hookah. He waited. By divulging the loss of his wife and the terrible kidnapping of his daughter he had laid bare his vulnerability. By revealing that he was on a solitary mission in the inhospitable terrain to rescue his child from a most feared enemy, he had appealed to Malik’s Pashtun values of fidelity and friendship.

Several moments later Abdus Malik got up and strode over to a sideboard against one wall of the living room. The handsome teak wood was lined with bric-à-brac. Malik picked up a photo frame and brought it over. He handed it to Harry. It showed a handsome young man attired like a groom. The grinning face sported a turban and a sehra, a curtain of flowers that covered his face.

‘My son,’ Malik said, his voice thick with emotion. ‘He was married last winter. A month back, I was blessed with a grandson.’

Malik gazed in the distance and Harry saw the flames from the fireplace leap in his eyes. A clock ticked loudly in the quiet. He turned to Harry, took the photo from his hand and placed it on a side table. Then he clasped Harry’s hand and gruffly said, ‘A Pathan does not forget.’

Adezai, Pakistan

Wednesday 1:05 p.m.

The first thing Harry needed was to figure out if
anyone had information regarding Babur, the renegade Amrikaayi soldier, or the recent capture of a woman in the surrounding area. He discussed it with Abdus Malik.

The legend of Babur, Malik supplied, had indeed spread in the tribal region. He was regarded as the prodigal son who had finally come home. And in the spirit of a convert, his zeal and fanaticism ranged ahead of his other Talib mates. An incident had occurred recently in Helmand, a province in the southwest of Afghanistan, and the world’s largest opium-producing region, that had solidified his position amongst the Taliban.

The US marines had pushed into the Helmand River valley in a major offensive to liberate the area from Taliban combatants. The operation, dubbed Operation Khanjar, was a decisive push. The Taliban, instead of fighting, retreated from most areas, leaving Improvised Explosive Devices, IEDs, behind. Nine days into the operation, in a booby-trapped ghost town beside the Helmand River, several marines took a break by relaxing in the shallow waters of the river. The town was vacant except for some Kuchi Afghan nomads. In time a lone donkey sauntered down the street. He was probably thirsty for he made for the river. It was only when he had started to lap up the water that a marine realized that the donkey was booby trapped too. The marines were recovered afterwards, in strips of flesh and cloth.

Malik called for one of his Lashkar commanders. Harry listened as he briefed him on the task. The man was thickset, a Kalashnikov submachine gun on his shoulder. He listened quietly and left. Harry knew what would follow. The request would be quickly passed down the chain of command until it reached the sources in the villages around and members of trusted local militia. If somebody had heard or seen anything, it would start to bubble up.

The question was in how much time.

AfPak Border

Wednesday 2:33 p.m.

Mehrunisa thrashed out in her sleep.

She was travelling down a winding road in Tuscany, rolling hills, fir trees and olive shrubs. Via A. Clarke. Reached Museo Civico, the art museum in Sansepolcro. A fresco on the wall. A man looked at her with wide haunted eyes. Eyes that were so dark. She was drawn towards him. The guards were asleep, all four of them. The man stood up, arose from the tomb, but the guards continued to slumber. They did not witness The Resurrection.

Again the winding road. The day was dusty.

Again a building inside which was another wall facing her. The paint was peeling and beneath it was a painting. An upright man stood facing her. He held a white flag with a red cross on it. There was blood on his chest, it looked fresh as it trickled out. People around her exclaimed at the beauty of the fresco, clucking that somebody had been foolish enough to paint over it. The painting, they proclaimed, was by a man from their town. Painted two hundred years back, it was The Resurrection. Truly, a woman remarked in awe, a resurrection – for the lost painting had come to life.

Again the winding road and Mehrunisa was on it. It was snowing. And very cold. A war raged. Bombs fell. One would hit her car any minute and she would incinerate like the hollowed out vehicles strewn about. On an overlooking hill a British officer defied orders to shell the German-occupied town below. His name was Arthur Clarke, and he had heard of a great fresco in the town. Then all went quiet. Mehrunisa reached the town square. The Germans had fled. People were slowly trickling out of their homes. A civic hall. Mehrunisa stepped inside. On a wall amidst the shattered debris still stood a fresco. Its colours had dimmed, a crack marred the wall, but the man still looked at her and she was drawn towards his dark eyes. Amidst all the chaos of war and the trembling people and the sleeping guards and the fleeing Germans and the incoming allies, he still stood upright. It stands, the people exclaimed in consolation. And it helps us stand. The fresco had saved the city from destruction. Truly, it was The Resurrection.

Mehrunisa’s eyes fluttered. The effect of the drug was wearing off. Through the haze she recalled her webbed dream. Even in that stupor her mind was asserting itself: it was telling her something…

She retraced her dream.

After believing him dead for so many years she had got to meet Papa. For her, he had risen from the dead. And he would come to get her. Amidst all that had happened and was happening she had the comfort of The Resurrection. Over a half millennium, Piero’s mural had stood its ground. It had prevailed through amnesia and neglect and bombs and war.

So would Harinder Singh Khosa.