THE HUNT FOR KOHINOOR BOOK 2 OF THE THRILLER SERIES FEATURING MEHRUNISA (4 page)

New Delhi

Monday 9:32 a.m.

Mehrunisa drove down the broad avenue of Janpath.
Originally named Queen’s Way, it was inaugurated in 1931 in the new city designed by Lutyens. The assumption of enduring British rule had overturned, but the radial road had lasted, even begetting a flourishing roadside market that thrummed with tourists.

At the traffic light, the car idling, Mehrunisa watched vendors arranging cloth handbags, festoons and embroidered rugs, as a young boy with a rack of glasses weaved through them. The vista lent itself to a Caravaggio. The glint of mirror work on handbags draped over metal railings, the stained trash bin silhouetted against coral cashmere, the cracked rubber slippers of the tea boy amidst brass divinities – this kaleidoscope he would fittingly animate on canvas.

It was during her second year of Renaissance studies when she’d returned to Delhi for a short vacation and discovered India was a Caravaggio masterpiece in motion. The Italian artist had loved to paint streets, and in India entire lives were spent on streets, by pavement dwellers, homeless beggars, hawkers. Caravaggio had painted Biblical scenes as if they were happening in the here and now. Indians lived with their history, whether in the ancient ruins that jostled with the masses or the daily recitation of verses from the Rig Veda composed five thousand years back. A Caravaggio painting grabbed the viewer by the throat with its synchronous depiction of grime and splendour, beauty and savagery. That duality Mehrunisa witnessed in the Subcontinent’s daily reality. Here lives were navigated amidst extremes of wealth and poverty, fanaticism abided with quiet faith, conservative sexual mores were upheld and never mind the Kama Sutra…

Screechy honking roused Mehrunisa from her reverie and she pushed the pedal. As she drove down the roundabout she focused her thoughts on the meeting ahead with the Director General of the Archaeological Survey of India. He had embarked on an ambitious venture to model Indian museums on the lines of world-class counterparts like the Louvre in Paris and the Metropolitan Museum in New York.

Located inside the historic Red Fort, the Mumtaz Mahal museum was one of Delhi’s foremost museums and the pilot chosen for the upgrade. Dedicated to the wife of the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan, in whose memory the lovelorn emperor had built the famed Taj Mahal, the exhibits served to throw light on the little-known queen. The Director General was counting on her expertise in modernizing the museum to offer a more contemporary experience to tourists. Perhaps the millions who trekked to see the Taj could be persuaded to get a primer on the woman whose legendary beauty had inspired the world’s most famous monument to love?

The office of the Director General was located in a colonial high-roofed single storey building off Janpath. After parking her car Mehrunisa walked down the concrete pavement towards the redbrick structure. Bright winter flowers in earthen pots bordered the left while a verdant green lawn stretched to the right. A gardener sat on his haunches plucking weeds. The cool air of early December and mellow sunlight colluded to make it a very pleasant morning and Mehrunisa breathed in deeply. A strident voice cut through.

‘DG wants you to take a look at this.’

It came from a man who stood in the doorway of the Director General’s office holding what appeared to be a scroll in his hands. ‘He’s running late for our meeting.’ Kapil Gupta did not appear pleased as he handed the paper to her.

Mehrunisa unfurled the scroll. A Mughal miniature of a garden scene. To a trained eye the painting spoke volumes. ‘Where did it come from? I’m sure you’ve identified it already.’

Dressed in khaki trousers and a checked blazer, Gupta was several inches shorter than her and one of the sharpest brains at the ASI. ‘Of course! But the DG wants your opinion,’ he snorted. ‘He doesn’t trust the judgment of his other restorers since you arrived on the scene.’

‘Remind me again what I did to earn your displeasure?’

Kapil Gupta pulled himself to his full height and regarded her with much reproach. ‘You represent everything that’s wrong with this country. Sixty years after independence and we still look up to white skin, and nepotism flows in our blood. Isn’t that why you,’ his right hand plucked something out of the air, ‘coming out of nowhere, become THE expert in the DG’s team. What qualifies you for the job – that you grew up in some exotic land and your uncle is an old historian?’

‘I am as qualified as you, at least as far as educational degrees go,’ Mehrunisa protested.

‘Not as experienced though, eh? And time spent guiding tourists through Vatican museums doesn’t count.’

Mehrunisa rolled her eyes. ‘And what is this about us Indians – I am an Indian too.’

‘Yeah, right. Sorry for missing that point, but how many Indians do you meet who are Iranian-Indian, Muslim-Sikh, and look like a very tall memsahib the English left behind?’

Woah! He had just made her sound like some freak. No wonder he couldn’t stand her. Returning to the matter on hand, she asked with as much civility as she could muster, ‘So what does the DG want verified?’

‘The period to which this miniature belongs.’

Mehrunisa turned so sunlight fell on the scroll – natural light was the best for study. A resplendent central figure in a garden with several brilliantly coloured birds wandering amongst the foliage drawn in equal detail. The intricate realism was typical of the Persian style; its vivid colours were representative of the Hindu style. That peculiar harmonious blend was a form patronized by the Mughal emperor Jahangir who had strong artistic tastes and had established his own atelier in the city of Allahabad. During his lifetime he had commissioned several illustrated books – this paper had likely come from one of them. She scanned the painting keenly to confirm her hypothesis. A few minutes of intense scrutiny revealed the nugget she was seeking. She looked up.

‘Mughal Art, Phase 2, Jahangir.’

Kapil Gupta’s face fell. ‘How can you be so sure?’

‘The portraiture of the central figure, likely the emperor Jahangir himself, the intricate, almost biological, detail of the birds and plants … all seem to indicate Jahangir–’

With a gleam in his eyes Gupta interrupted her. ‘But Jahangir encouraged his painters to sign their name, a departure from other emperors. Where is the painter’s signature here, eh?’

Mehrunisa had expected that. With her index finger she tapped a rock contour in the backdrop of the painting. On it, written sideways, was the painter’s name: Daulat. ‘Unobtrusive. Typical of an artist who did not want to distract from the central theme of the composition.’ She rolled the painting and handed it back to him.

Kapil Gupta was a sore loser. His miffed demeanour annoyed Mehrunisa. She could not resist a retort.

‘Right under your nose. Only you didn’t see it. Experience can work both ways: wisdom of years can clear eyes or cynicism blind you.’

Gupta wheeled around abruptly and departed into the darkened interior. Mehrunisa blew air out of her mouth. The garden was a welcome relief and she stepped into its verdant expanse. As her right hand trailed a palm frond, her phone beeped. She dug it out and saw a mug sporting a luxuriant moustache on the screen.

It had been a while since she had heard from Raghav. A year back she had assisted him on a sensitive case. Raghav was at that time heading the Anti Terrorist Cell of Uttar Pradesh. The state boasted a high density of historical monuments, including the world-famous Taj Mahal. Working together, Mehrunisa and SSP Raghav, led by R.P. Singh, who was with the CBI at the time, had managed to avert a disaster.

Since then, Raghav, who was posted in Agra, had called upon Mehrunisa whenever his work brought him to Delhi. However, ever since he had been posted to Srinagar, six months back, they had not met. ‘Raghav,’ she said cheerily.

‘Mehrunisa,’ she heard the policeman say, ‘always a pleasure to hear your voice.’

‘Thanks for headlining it, not that I would know from your infrequent calls.’

‘Ah, the little niceties that make life pleasurable. What do cops know!’

She could hear him grinning.

‘I am improving though. How about lunch, say one o’clock?’

‘Lunch? You’re in town?’

‘The restaurant I had in mind is by the lakeside.’

‘Lakeside?’

‘With great views of shikaras. And snow-clad mountains all around.’

As Mehrunisa listened, one part of her trying to second guess Raghav, he said, ‘You still there? The best part is yet to come.’

‘Really?’

‘Have you reached the Director General’s office?’

‘How–’ Raghav would have spoken with Mangat Ram, of course. ‘Is the DG invited to lunch as well?’

‘Perhaps. Listen.’ And Raghav proceeded to detail how an excavation by the army in Kashmir for construction of underground bunkers had yielded something curious: a Mughal-era pond that had lain submerged for centuries. However, while the pond was of historical significance, what lay beneath the pond was more so. Further digging had revealed a stone sculpture of a Hindu goddess. In a land whose history was littered with instances of Mughal conquerors destroying Hindu temples and building mosques and monuments atop them, the discovery had potent ramifications. The army had deferred the excavation process and notified the police.

‘You know that’s not unusual. So where’s the fire?’

‘This is Kashmir we are talking about Mehrunisa, the juicy bone after which Pakistan yaps at us. Where thousands of Indian soldiers are trying to keep peace. If this thing leaks out, there could be serious rioting.’

‘Where do I fit?’

‘We need you to confirm if the pond really is from the Mughal era. Get to the airport in an hour. If all is on schedule, we can lunch beside the Dal Lake. The mutton ghosht is out of this world.’

‘This is ridiculous!’

Mehrunisa was angry at Raghav’s glib assumption that she would drop everything to do his bidding. There was Professor Kaul whom she would have to leave in the care of the housekeeper, she would have to alert the nurse and doctor of her impending absence, and then the tiny matter of clothes and her personal belongings. ‘First I haven’t said yes. And even if I agree, I need time to get personal stuff sorted.’

Raghav exhaled loudly before saying, ‘You will have to trust me on this Mehrunisa. We are sitting on something big – bigger than
last
time.’

‘What?’ What could possibly be bigger than the attempt to destroy the nation’s world-famous monument? ‘Anyway,’ she shrugged, ‘are there even daily flights to Srinagar?’ Despite its legendary beauty, thanks to the terror industry, the city was not exactly overflowing with tourists. Besides, it was the month of December, way past the tourist season of summer.

‘No commercial flight, Mehrunisa. There is a man waiting in the Director General’s office–’

‘
Aria fritta,
’ she muttered. ‘What–’

‘To escort you to a plane waiting for you. See you in Srinagar.’

Srinagar, India

Monday 9:59 a.m.

In the Badami Bagh cantonment of Srinagar stands
a
two-storey bungalow built in the colonial English style with sloping roof, casement windows, whitewashed exterior walls and a sweeping red brick staircase. From the sky, the green tile roof of the idyllic bungalow mingles with the lush greenery of the surrounding chinar trees that are native to Kashmir. Thus the 92 Base Army Hospital stands adequately camouflaged, and appropriately so. Located in the operational area of the Indian army, it is flooded with patients year-round, army and paramilitary soldiers injured in fighting an insurgency and the influx of foreign jihadis. The state-of-the-art infrastructure provides access to the country’s best physicians via satellite.

Notwithstanding its ultra hi-tech character, there exists in the hospital one particular room where more elemental items are stacked: iron rods, metal shards, keys, pebbles, even a two kilogram stone. These have been extracted from the bodies of the injured.

To that showcase had been added the several scraps of metal extricated by the operating surgeon from Harry’s body. The injured spy was recovering in a room at one end of the corridor. That area had been completely secured. Its sole window was barred and fixed in place. The adjoining rooms were vacant on explicit orders. In one such ‘vacant’ room sat a person with headphones on, his eyes glued to a monitor. Harry’s room had been bugged with strategically located microchips. A posse of security guards – paramilitary officers – guarded the entrance to the room and also the window if, miraculously, escape were possible from there. Inside the room, the Director, Pakistan Desk was facing a man who had been told that he had led a half-life for the past seventeen years, time in which he had earned the honorific of Snow Leopard.

Snow leopards are found in Central Asia, in a region where the borders of several countries are disputed. Harry had spent his life navigating the treacherous Indo-Pak-Afghan region and demonstrated exemplary skill and stealth in doing so. A s
now leopard prefers steep, broken terrain of cliffs, rocky outcrops, and ravines. This type of habitat provides it with good cover and clear views to help it sneak up on its prey. An undercover spy does something very similar.

Harry’s legendary spying skills had preceded the honorific but at some point the agent had begun identifying with the cat. Time spent navigating the Hindu Kush-Himalaya terrain had brought him several encounters with the snow leopard. A wildlife conservation team had even availed of Harry’s expertise on an expedition to study the animal – data on the elusive cat was slim, owing to their limited numbers and inhospitable habitat.

Now, caught in the unblinking gaze of the prone man on the hospital bed, Jag Mishra recalled a story Harry had recounted. Two poachers, having failed in their attempt to capture a snow leopard, were following the blood trail of the wounded animal. However, the animal’s ability to hide is its greatest advantage. He lured the poaching duo in, waiting for the right place and time to strike. When he revealed himself, barely a paw away, he passed over the first man and went for the second whose gunshot had wounded him. A wounded leopard was vindictive and sought precise revenge.

‘You lied to me.’

Strapped in bandages, his skin visible in patches, Harry stared at him from the bed. His wounds were not very deep, the surgeon had assured Mishra. However, since Harry had taken several shrapnel pieces, he needed to be rested. That, though, was not the only reason the operative was lying down in bed. His ankles and wrists were in restraints.

In an even tone Jag Mishra said, ‘I had no option.’

‘No option.’ Harry spat the words out. ‘Bachelor buddies, isn’t that what you said. When you gave me an entirely new life.’ He tugged at the thick bands encircling his wrists. ‘If I wasn’t restrained, I’d kill you.’

‘The thought did cross my mind.’

Harry had spent the last several hours hurtling through a 3D video album, the pictures in random order, each a piece of shrapnel, searing him with its intensity, tearing his insides. In a hospital room holding a newborn in his arms. Strolling down Via Veneto with a woman with eyes the colour of emeralds. Hide and seek in the gardens of Villa Borghese. A gallery off Teheran’s Laleh Park. A girl’s squealing laugh. The Astaire fold. Aperi-tea-f. Husband. Father. Dubai. Rome. Spy… The life that he’d blocked out for so many years had come back to claim him with all the ferocity of a dormant minefield blowing up.

‘You let me believe that a part of my life never existed.’

From the foot of the bed where he stood Mishra held both palms up, a position of appeal. ‘What would you have done, Harry? Gone into therapy? Spent hours sitting on a hospital bed trying to remember?’ He shrugged. ‘Work was your therapy, Harry. It was what you always came back to. Remember when you married. The only thing you made your wife promise was that she’d never ask you to leave your job.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps you need to remind yourself why you got into the intelligence business in the first place.’

Quietly Mishra watched his friend and colleague of thirty-odd years. In many ways, Mishra was the opposite of Harry. Mishra was a committed bachelor, a teetotaller whose wardrobe comprised greys, whites, occasional blues, and whose demeanour ranged from placid to calm. Mishra was the behind-the-scenes man, while Harry was the go-to guy. Mishra had yet to see a spy whose combination of cunning, stealth and superb athleticism could be matched by anyone in the force. Admittedly, Harry had moved up the ladder to more strategic work like Operation Karakoram, which involved a painstaking secret dialogue on Kashmir between the two leaders of Pakistan and India. Yet Mishra knew that on any given day the master spy was still numero uno. Other agents were in the spying business; for Harry, his work was jihad. The lack of distractions had only lasered the zeal.

‘The time for niceties is up Jag.’ Harry broke the rumination. ‘The reason you have me restrained is not because I’ll kill you. It is because you don’t want to lose me. But,’ Harry’s mouth curved in a sneer, ‘I’m not in much shape to go AWOL.’

‘You recall what happened in Dras yesterday?’

‘The General got blown up.’

Jag Mishra pulled a chair from where it was lined against the rear wall, placed it by Harry’s side and sat down. Then, in a low voice, he proceeded to disclose Aziz Mirza’s revelation of Kohinoor, his critical documents that the President had stored in a secret safe place.

‘How many hours do you have?’

Mishra noted Harry’s use of ‘you’ and not his trademark ‘we’. ‘The estimate continues to be for an attack this Thursday, the seventh. A high alert has been issued and security has been beefed up at sensitive spots.’ Which meant airports, a clutch of historic monuments, strategic installations and a couple of elite boarding schools in north India.

Harry processed the information, his eyes narrowing. He stayed silent.

‘A hundred hours,’ Mishra said. ‘Where could the President’s Kohinoor be – any guesses?’

Harry made a derisive snort. It came out strangled because of the bandaged jaw, yet the contempt was clear. ‘You are an optimist Mishra, I have to grant you that, a persistent optimist.’

Mishra leaned forward. ‘Think Harry. In your talks with Aziz, did he ever mention anything that could lead us to the Kohinoor?’

‘And a supreme opportunist,’ Harry continued as if Mishra had not spoken. ‘For years you had your own personal spy on leash to do your bidding. Well, guess what Chanakya? I quit.’

Jag Mishra thrust his lower lip forward and eyed Harry briefly before saying, ‘And you are stubborn. Perhaps,’ he got up pushing the chair back, ‘an incentive will help.’

From his front pocket he extracted a photograph and, leaning forward, held it in front of the prone man’s face. He kept a steady hand, giving Harry time to study the high broad forehead, the grey-green eyes, the straight black hair.

He saw realization dawn in Harry’s eyes. In a wearied voice Jag Mishra said, ‘I am a realist Harry, not an optimist. A realist who believes that people are capable of anything – all you need are the right levers.’