THE HUNT FOR KOHINOOR BOOK 2 OF THE THRILLER SERIES FEATURING MEHRUNISA (30 page)

Bhakra Dam, India

Thursday 6:40 a.m.

Things happened in quick succession. A thunderous
roar filled the air. A blaze lit up the sky. The temperature around him rose. As R.P. Singh staggered from the explosion that reverberated around him his legs made to sprint towards the rampart to inspect the water. But his mind commanded
NO!

The dense jungles of Chattisgarh – where pythons packed the ground, leopards prowled waist-high grass, temperamental bison headbutted wayfarers, trigger-happy Naxals melded with the foliage – had trained Singh’s gut. It had thus developed a radar that operated independently of impulse. Singh swayed on the toes of his urging feet.

The next instant a pealing pierced the air. The alarm had gone off. Signal for dam employees to evacuate. Singh turned to look at the generator room from where a stream of men had erupted. All around him people were dashing for exits.
All except one.

Singh’s narrowed eyes tracked the security guard who was snaking backwards into the generator room. He tore into a sprint. Could not afford to lose the man.

It was like fighting his way through a herd of buffaloes stampeding out of the forest because of fire. Mindless of the jabbing elbows, stamping feet, jostling and hysteria, Singh bulldozed his way in, repeatedly proclaiming, Police, make way, Police!

Once inside, his eyes ferreted for the man in the cavernous space. He sighted him at the top of a spiral stairwell. The man was flitting his way down, light and sure-footed. And Singh knew: this was no ordinary cop.

When Singh reached the foot of the stairs he found himself facing a long corridor. He peered left-right. The ‘cop’ was bounding down right. Singh waited until the man was out of sight then slinked down the narrow hallway. At the end, the corridor branched right. He poked his head out infinitesimally. The cop had joined two men who were dressed in the uniform of dam employees. One man was so massive that no uniform could contain him: his enormous girth and strength radiated out. Four large canvas bags were at their feet. Hulk hoisted two on his shoulders, the other two dragged theirs as they followed.

In the wall opposite was a narrow red door. The ‘cop’ deposited the bag near his foot and swung the door handle open. Hulk stowed the bags inside, crumpled his mighty frame and sidled in. The second man followed. The ‘cop’ hauled the fourth bag over, shut the door behind them and swung the door handle shut. He stepped across to the other side from where he stood wary guard, his eyes sweeping the corridor.

The door must lead to an inspection gallery. From the rudimentary briefing the night before, Singh knew galleries led into the concrete heart of the dam’s triangular structure. Parallel to the dam axis the galleries ran longitudinal. Some of these had additional galleries normal to the dam axis and ran horizontal. Perspiration lined Singh’s forehead. Either way, the blast on the lake was a decoy. The attack was coming from the heart of the dam, from deep within its concrete self.

He forced a gulp down his suddenly constricted throat and shook his head to clear his mind. Three men, lethal explosives, and a breach of the dam’s heart. And he was one. He watched the ‘cop’ glance at his watch repeatedly. He had to stop the attack. Time was ticking.

Orakzai, Pakistan

Thursday 6:16 a.m.

Crouching, Harry stepped inside the small cave.
With his
night-vision goggles he scanned the area. In the deep end of the low narrow cave a wooden door stood ajar. As he prowled inside a man abruptly loomed from behind, his gun aloft. He was at the threshold when Harry slammed the door into him bringing the weight of his six-foot-four frame heavily upon the wood. It crunched and crushed the man’s hand. A cry of agony and the next instant Harry had disarmed and shot him.

Quickly, he scoured the cave for another fighter. Sighting none, he proceeded forward, the AK-47 held in front. Rough-hewn steps led further down. Staying close to the wall he moved on. In a narrow space barely large enough to seat two people he saw a huddled figure atop a narrow cot. There was no movement from the figure. As he came closer he noticed a tin plate on the cot. Harry cast a look over his shoulder, then bent down. He tilted the head up. It swayed back. Straight black hair fell over one side of the face. Mehrunisa!

Urgently, he whispered her name and tapped her cheeks. Removing the quilt, he found her hands tied. Harry felt the rope and with a pocketknife cut it. Once again he called her name, patting her cheeks as he did so. The eyes moved. She opened them slowly, dazed. Mehr, he said softly, patting her head, Mehr. The beginning of a tremulous smile.

Mehr, Harry persisted, Papa is here.

A look of recognition dawned. Then her eyes opened wide in terror. Harry felt a slashing pain cut through his neck and he tumbled forward.

As he fell Harry went into a lock, wrapping his arms and legs tightly into a ball. This enabled him to roll over like a hedgehog as he hit the ground. In the instant that his body turned up he lashed a leg in a swift sharp move. It hit the assailant in the knee, he buckled. As Harry made to swing up the assailant fell upon him pinning him down. Harry’s gun had clattered out of his hand with the initial attack from the rear. Now as he attempted to free himself of the man with one hand he tried to reach for the pistol in his ankle holster with his other. The fighter had regained a position of control as he wrestled Harry and attempted to choke him with his hands.

Harry clamped his attacker’s wrists fiercely but the man was strong and had the advantage of gravity working for him. In the dark Harry could see that he was dressed in fatigues and not the shalwar kameez of the average jihadi. Harry struggled to prise out of the grip, his knees worked furiously to prod the man in the back but Harry could feel his strength sapping. Then a sharp creaking sound. A piercing scream as the jagged edge of glass was visible briefly in the space above his assailant before it was plunged into his neck.

Mehrunisa had put her whole weight behind that thrust of the jagged shard. She collapsed on top of the assailant as the glass tore into the man’s neck. He choked, gasped and his hands reached for his neck. With one swift move Harry reached for his daughter, pulling her away as he shoved the jihadi aside. Blood frothing at his mouth, the man collapsed on his back. His eyes were open wide, his mouth gurgling. Thick blue glass was lodged firmly in his neck – Mehrunisa had driven it with such desperate force that it had sliced the man’s ear and blood spurted forth. His carotid artery slashed, he was dying.

Harry gathered Mehrunisa, transfixed by the unfolding scene. He gripped her shoulders. ‘Look at me Mehr, look into my eyes. You did what you had to do. It was the right thing to do. But we still have to get out of this place. So you need to be with me. Do you understand?’

Mehrunisa, slack-jawed, looked at her father. Her face looked like it would crumple. Instead she clamped her mouth tight and nodded.

‘Good.’ Harry whipped out his phone and clicked a few pictures of the dead jihadi. Then he turned to his daughter.

‘Think of me as your shield. Stay behind me, close as a shadow. At no point are you to move away from me. And when I give an instruction, follow it, regardless of how absurd it sounds. Got it?’

A wordless nod.

‘Let’s get out of here.’

Harry and Mehrunisa climbed the stairs. Harry had recovered his AK-47 and it was held in front of him. Behind the shattered door Harry motioned her to halt. A faint footfall on the other side. Both plastered to the wall. As a man made to enter, Harry slammed a chop on his neck that sent him tumbling down the steps. Then he grabbed hold of his daughter and they sped out of the doorway. Harry aimed at the man who was firing from the mouth of the cave. A bullet whistled over his head. Not before the jihadi took three shots and fell.

Outside the cave, there were no fighters in the immediate vicinity. From the sound of gunfire, it appeared the Lashkar had managed to draw the jihadis out. Harry grabbed Mehrunisa’s hand and hurried towards the cliff. They had to clamber down the cliffside and around the hill. In an overhang would be waiting the Lashkar man with Harry’s horse. A flare would go up as signal for the Lashkar to retreat. A quick glance at his watch – swollen beans would take care of any Taliban that gave chase.

If Jerand possessed the nerves Palawan had promised, he would fly them out of the hellhole.

Bhakra Dam, India

Thursday 7:01 a.m.

He would brazen it out. The ‘cop’ who stood
guard
had no weapon visibly displayed. Singh casually stepped out and walked in an official manner down the corridor. The ‘cop’ bent down as if in scrutiny. As Singh approached, he turned upright in surprise.

‘Sir,’ he said, acknowledging Singh’s badge, ‘all okay here. I have checked – no man left behind.’

Singh nodded. ‘Good,’ he spun on his heel as he surveyed. ‘There,’ he pointed towards the far end. The ‘cop’ swivelled too in the direction of Singh’s arm. The next instant a hand was clasped at the base of his neck, directly above the collarbone, even as the other arm caught the man in a vice around his abdomen. Pressure on the carotid artery. He crumpled swiftly. Singh dragged him to a generator and handcuffed him to its iron leg.

He tried Mishra on the walkie-talkie – engaged; on his mobile – engaged. Then he called Raghav – no answer.

He made towards the red door. No plan for what lay ahead, except to improvise.

Bhakra Dam, India

Thursday 7:02 a.m.

Raghav dragged himself out of the water onto the
bank. His body was in hell. He had touched the surface of the lake blazing hot, sunk into its cool belly, welcomed the respite until his lungs jolted him. Kicking his feet he propelled himself up, clawing water with his right arm, his left immobilized by the brace. He broke the surface to fires, thick smoke, shrieks, a pealing alarm and mayhem.

How long had it taken him to plough his way through the lake, dodging floating debris, charred bodies, struggling to stay afloat with one arm? Flopped on the grassy bank Raghav shook his head and forced his eyes open. The mayhem on the water extended on land too.

Where were Mishra and Singh? Somebody needed to take charge, bark orders, get some order into the frenzy. Uniformed dam employees were fleeing in all directions even as stray policemen attempted to control the pandemonium…

He turned on his back with effort then levered himself into a sitting position, his elbows sinking into the squelchy ground. He patted his pockets – the mobile must have fallen into the water. He remembered the blast knocking the walkie-talkie out of his hand. Raghav pulled himself upright and did a brisk recce: the explosion on the Gobind Sagar Lake had generated chaos and confusion but the dam stood rock solid. Had they prevented the attack? Too simple, too obvious…

Was the attack still in progress, the worst yet to unfold?

Raghav screwed his eyes. Pain surged through his body and flashed red-hot in his brain. His arms throbbed, one from fatigue, the other from injury. Grimacing, he attempted to tighten the soggy crepe bandage even as he thought furiously. Mishra was stationed in the control room set up near the Visitors Gallery, which was far from the point of blast. In which case Mishra would be about, trying to contain the damage. Singh was overseeing the heart of the dam – its generator room. The persistent pealing must have driven employees from that room – in which case, where would Singh be?

In the mouth of danger. Not trusting the unexpected vacuum, Singh would have rushed back in. Raghav knew the man who had successfully battled Naxals on their turf – he took the battle to them.

He checked his gun – it had taken water, he would need a replacement. As he clambered his way up the bank he was remotely aware of the excruciating pain that blanketed his body. Controlling his thoughts, emotions and pain was a case of mind over matter – lesson one from the ‘hell week’ of endurance training at Mossad.

Time the training paid off.

Bhakra Dam, India

Thursday 7:21 a.m.

Once inside the red door Singh found himself in
a narrow circular passage that led to a steep vertical stairwell. Noiselessly, he climbed down for what seemed like eternity before the stairs truncated at another narrow passage, barely high enough to stand without scraping the ceiling. Singh crouched and peered ahead. From the ill-lit tunnel came clinking sounds and a light source shone ahead.

Singh tiptoed in, his eyes ferreting the dark for information. The passageway offered little scope to hide – it was bare, uniformly narrow, with a slight curvature. Twenty metres in, the aura of light strengthened. He paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Plastered against one wall he craned his neck. Explosives were being laid out. A wire ran on, breaching at points where it was attached to some charge. Further ahead, a man was discernible. From the blurry outline Singh surmised it was not the Hulk.

Hulk alone would be akin to two bulls, high on alcohol, with chilli powder rubbed in their eyes. He had to take out the other man first. He cast around, found a pebble and hurled it forward. It clattered against the rock floor, echoing loudly in the enclosed space. The blurry outline jerked up. A hand with a gun aloft stood in relief against the wall. A man half-crouched his way towards Singh, the beam from his head torch guiding him.

Time froze.

The man who pursued the Naxals in Bastar, who had spent several months in arid windswept north Afghanistan where a stray sound could mean a snapped twig, a startled sheep or an assassin cocking his gun, was first a hunter. In every hunt he underwent a state of extreme alertness – when his mind processed everything with slow deliberation even as his body sprang into action.

Singh heard the man’s footfall, his shallow breathing, and watched his tongue flick out as he approached. The man was coming from light to dark – Singh had the advantage of relative sight. He sprang out, dislodged the head torch with his left hand, while his right chopped the man’s neck with fierce alacrity. He crumpled, hands slack. Singh caught his falling body, pocketed his gun and positioned him against the wall, legs draped parallel to the axis and out of the way.

Singh straightened, head bent and breathed deeply. Now, Hulk.

His best bet would be to catch him unawares and shoot him dead. But fairy tales didn’t occur deep in the concrete heart of a dam being wired up to detonate. As he minced his way forward he observed the explosives laid out like some festive garland of lights. Only, the lights here were IEDs and, he narrowed his eyes, a particularly nasty type. Likely EFP, explosively formed penetrator, a vicious IED which jihadis had used to great effect in Iraq to penetrate armoured tanks even. Clearly this was an improvement, one that was a stew of chemicals – RDX, TATB, PETN, TNT – primary and secondary explosives kicking in with rapidity and enough power to crack the concrete heart of Bhakra. And there was an entire chain being hooked up.

Singh had reached the light source, a powerful emergency lamp, and ahead he could see Hulk, his massive back bent upon the task of securing the IEDs against the wall. He raised his gun and aimed. Hulk straightened up, the light from his head torch swept over Singh. His eyes widened and he tumbled to his side as a bullet whizzed past. Singh fired shots in succession. The next instant a clink, the light went out, and something clattered onto the floor.

R.P. Singh plastered himself against the wall just as a hail of bullets rained near him. Two blind men. Hulk could decide to set off the detonation any minute. Except, he hadn’t finished wiring them all. And he didn’t look the suicide bomber type.

On a deep breath, Singh closed his eyes. The dark was no different from the jungle, which could be pitch black at noon because of dense foliage impermeable even to sunlight. Only foolhardy policemen ventured inside – policemen who had learnt to listen like animals, with little reliance on sight.

Hulk was approaching, very softly for a man his size. Singh was curved flat against the curving tunnel wall. An eternity passed before it was time. Singh opened his eyes, counted the nearing breaths, zoomed out, aimed and plastered himself back. A snarl, an invective and another hail of bullets. Hulk had taken a shot.

A bear lunged at Singh, grabbed his torso and slammed him against the floor.

Dazed, beaten, pain ricocheting through his body, Singh dimly realized that Hulk had run forward under the sound and fury of his shooting and decided to pulp him. Hulk was bending when Singh lashed out at his groin. What would have rendered another man comatose made Hulk stagger. Pushing down on his palms Singh made to hoist himself up when a paw smashed his face. His head banged against the floor. Stars burst out inside the tunnel. Blood flooded his mouth.

The next instant Hulk gripped his shoulders and hoisted Singh upright, banging his head against the ceiling as he righted him. He had switched on his head torch – the light was blinding. Singh screwed his eyes. Death was staring him in the face, except it looked like Yama’s buffalo that had strayed out of Bastar. His lip curled at the joke – clearly his mind was pulp – but Hulk looked affronted at what he deemed was mirth. He slammed Singh to the floor again like a rag doll. Seizing this last chance Singh lashed out his legs like an acrobat even as his hands rummaged the floor for a sign of his gun. Wasted.

Crouched over him Hulk smashed a fist into his jaw. He heard bones fragment and loose teeth spring in his mouth even as his own blood threatened to drown him. Singh tried to breathe, force his eyes open, think.
Mehrunisa
. Another blow was coming his way, one that would finish him, and his dying thought was Mehrunisa. His face lit up.

Hulk, momentarily startled by the dying man’s joy, paused. A rosebud sprouted on his forehead. He swayed, eyes incredulous. A second rosebud sprouted on his neck before it began to squirt blood.

Hulk yo-yoed, his mouth open, before plunging forward. Singh slid, swerved, and Hulk crashed to the floor.

Then Raghav was there, cradling his head and pointing a torch in his face. He was wearing night-vision goggles, which had enabled him to shoot Hulk with precision.

Singh tried to speak. Couldn’t. He spat once, twice, ridding his mouth of bone fragments, blood and dislodged teeth. Turning to Raghav he croaked, ‘How do I look?’

‘You could do with a shave.’

Singh grinned, which made him wince. He had avoided Hulk’s ox trunk but his legs were still trapped under those enormous thighs. ‘Listen, can you rescue my legs too?’

Raghav eyed the mound under which Singh lay buried. ‘This will require a bulldozer.’ He launched himself at the inert mountain of flesh, pushing-shoving-pushing as Singh slithered from underneath.

When Singh had wriggled out and Raghav was catching his breath, he growled, ‘You’re making a habit of it.’

‘What?’ Raghav exhaled.

‘Of saving my skin.’

‘Ah!’ Raghav grinned. ‘A dusht in my debt, twice over.’