The Hunt for Kohinoor
The Hunt for Kohinoor
Manreet Sodhi Someshwar
Book 2 of the thriller series featuring
Mehrunisa Khosa
westland ltd
61 Silverline Building, 2nd floor, Alapakkam Main Road, Maduravoyal, Chennai 600095
No. 38/10 (New No.5), Raghava Nagar, New Timber Yard Layout, Bangalore 560026
93, 1st Floor, Sham Lal Road, New Delhi 110002
First published in India by westland ltd 2013
First e-book edition: 2013
Copyright © by Manreet Sodhi Someshwar 2013
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-93-83260-60-7
Typeset by Ram Das Lal
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, circulated, and no reproduction in any form, in whole or in part (except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews) may be made without written permission of the publishers.
For Malvika, my noor — On your eleventh
And Prasanna, yaar ko humne ja baja dekha —
These one score and two years
The Hunt for Kohinoor
It snaked up the charcoal mountain, a seemingly endless zigzag etched on rock, straight out of her sketchbook. Papa had told her about the hulking range that dwarfed everything and she had drawn from his telling and her imagination. Now that she was on the road it was rather real and grey and gravelly. When she stretched out an arm she could touch the sharp granite and feel its teeth, or hover her hand over a void that made strange sucking sounds.
It was one of the highest motorable roads in the world, tunnelling its way through hard rock one moment – to sight the summit she had to bend her neck so far back it hurt – and gliding on thin air the next as it hugged a cliff face – which was when she closed her eyes tight. Was it a colossus, she asked Papa. Multiple times over, he laughed. Rent from the earth it had hurtled skywards when the subcontinent of India sailed into Eurasia and forgot to brake. Fifty million years after the collision the mountain still seemed angry as it whistled and shrieked around them. But Papa loved the mountain.
The Himalayas is not just pretty hills and bubbling brooks, he instructed, as they departed the picturesque hamlet of Sonamarg and headed up north to appreciate the true nature of the world’s foremost elevation, sacred to three religions.
Himalaya, the abode of snow, was the chosen spot of Hindu, Sikh and Buddhist divinities – Mehrunisa was beginning to understand why. The narrow road hugged the mountain tightly on one side. On the other was the deepest drop, dotted with painted shells. To Mehrunisa’s query, Papa informed that those were vehicles that had tumbled over at some point during the ascent. No wonder every person on this road needed his god perched at the mountaintop to watch over him. She squeezed her eyes and quickly recalled the gods of both her parents.
Papa was at the wheel, his back tensed in concentration. Mehrunisa wished they were back where they had begun, a picnic in a flower-strewn meadow, sharing tea and parathas, green hills all around them. This barrenness was such a contrast to the green meadow of bluebells and daisies they had left behind. There the sky was cerulean with fluffy white clouds, exactly as she sketched it – what Papa called ‘picture-postcard Kashmir’. She had beamed her delight, happy to be transported to the land of Papa’s stories.
Maadar had gone to visit her family in Iran and Mehrunisa was happy to vacation with her father, a rare treat. His work at the Indian Consulate in Dubai involved travel, tons of it. In the two days since the start of the holiday, Papa had given Mehrunisa her first golf lesson, on the highest golf course in the world, Gulmarg. Then they had driven to Sonamarg, where the sun reflecting off the snowy peaks created golden tiaras.
Papa was restless, though: the pristine Himalayas was best savoured where the rugged terrain deterred tourists. Thus they had departed for Zoji La – it sounded like a Manga character but was a high mountain pass – which would soon shut down due to heavy snowfall. The road from Sonamarg had been long and winding, bordered by dense forest. Now they were inside a giant rock crucible.
They rounded a bend. A grey cliff towered over them. What if it sprung loose and slammed down upon them? Would they become one of those painted shells in the ravine? Or would they squish like ants? She shot a glance at Papa. His genial face had hardened. The quiet was eerie, only car tyres scrunching.
Then gravel came hurtling down the cliffside. A group of men in shalwar kameezes rolled down upon them. Their faces obscured by turban ends wrapped around, they cradled big guns in their hands. Gunshots rang. Whooosh! The jeep slumped. Tyres whimpered. Then stopped. Yanking her down, Papa whipped out a pistol from the glove compartment.
More gunshots filled the air. And echoes resounded in the rock crucible. The passenger door was wrenched open, cold metal thrust against her temple. Papa was being dragged out, his pistol fell to the floor. One man slapped the butt of a gun against his head. A splintery sound. Blood trickled down the side of his face. A shrill cry in the cold air – hers. He slumped, unconscious. Two men grabbed him under his arms and hauled him out of sight around the bend while a couple remained to man the jeep’s doors.
She wanted to chase her father’s captors, instead her hands were clawing the leather of the car seat. She wanted to move her head but it was glued to the bend around which Papa had disappeared. She wanted to do something, but her body was inert, leaking out instead in wails.
Then Papa reappeared, supported by one man. Why was he wearing a full-length robe, only his head visible, as he lurched forward? His sneering escort had buried one hand into her father’s caftan, the right held a gun aloft. Her eyes swivelled with her father’s jerky progress to the passenger side of the jeep, her hand extended to touch him. His eyes were open but glazed, the blood had dried and his neck –
The rising wail curdled in her chest. In one swift move, the turbanned escort had snatched the gown away. It revealed an upright bamboo shaft, atop which sat the severed head of her father.
New Delhi, India
Sunday 2:22 a.m.
Mehrunisa Khosa sat up in bed, perspiring profusely despite the cold winter night. In the quiet her breath was raspy. She dropped her jaw and sucked the night air greedily, filling her lungs. In a corner a night lamp glowed reassuringly – she was in her room. The house was quiet, she hadn’t screamed aloud, the tightness was still in her throat.
A few moments of deep breathing as she collected herself. She rolled her shoulders backwards. It was the same nightmare. The Beheading. That was her epithet for the trauma from the unexpected loss of her father. Kashmir was where Papa took her when she was eight. Six years later, when posted in Rome, he disappeared off the face of earth. Poof! Vanished.
However, since her mother revealed the truth to her two years back – that her father, the suave ex-diplomat businessman, had actually been an undercover agent – this nightmare had haunted her. Papa was captured by the Pakistanis once, she said, and tortured – the threat was to behead him and display his head on the Line of Control. Now with the approaching anniversary of her father’s disappearance, presumed death, The Beheadings had gathered frequency.
It was her subconscious acting out her guilt – Mehrunisa had enough acquaintance with Freud to know that she blamed herself for not preventing her father from disappearing. If she had loved him enough, he never would h
ave left.
Maadar’s disclosure was prompted by her desire to see Mehrunisa shake off the past, find a man, marry and settle down.
A tall male swam into mind, eyeing her intently. Maadar would have enjoyed meeting Pratap. He had that quality she liked in men, rocklike. That was what she said of her husband: he is my rock.
The Beheadings, however, had rendered her an emotional wasteland; intimacy with a man stood no chance... Pratap would just have to wait.
Kashmir, India
Sunday 4:06 a.m.
In the snowy reaches of northern India is a town that, after Siberia, is the coldest inhabited place on earth: Dras. Situated on the Line of Control between India and Pakistan, the sleepy town last saw action during the Kargil War. The Dras valley is strategic to India’s security. Starting from the base of the Zoji La, it is the Himalayan gateway to Ladakh, the northernmost part of Indian Kashmir.
In 1999 Pakistan infiltrated India, setting off the fourth war between the two countries. Pakistani soldiers occupied the strategic Tiger Hill that overlooks Dras town and the lone national highway linking the region to the rest of the country. Intending to sever that link, the enemy shelled repeatedly from above. A final assault by 18 Grenadiers Regiment of India led to the recapture of the hill, which was to prove a turning point in the war.
After the war ended, a wiser Indian army increased the number of soldiers at Gurkha Post, the high-altitude base in Dras, and invested in its support infrastructure. A small cement plaque at the Post commemorates the construction of the first rock bunker on Gurkha Post.
On this freezing December day in the early hours of morning, the ghost of Kargil still hung over the military outpost. Mercury had plunged to minus five degrees centigrade, yet soldiers patrolled through the flurry of snow. Dressed in thick jackets, snow shoes and goggles, they were keeping vigil despite – or because of – the inclement weather.
Deep inside the bunker, the soldier assigned to the kitchen was enjoying the warmth from a fire that had been blazing for two hours – the time it took to boil a bucket of water. Elaborate breakfast was not the norm, but this was not a normal morning.
The Indian army Cheetah helicopter had landed ten minutes back with the Prime Minister. He was escorted right away to the shelter. Meanwhile, from his position at the mouth of the bunker, Harry once again surveyed Gurkha Post and its surrounding. Dressed in an Italian wool suit, his six-foot four frame towered over the two soldiers flanking him at the entrance. The soldiers were shaven and dressed in crisp olive uniforms, for even at that height and temperature there was no relaxing of standards.
Beyond them, the helipad was clear and lit up, and with low wind and light snow, ready for landing. Any minute now, Harry reckoned, as he examined the sky with his night-vision binoculars. He nodded to the captain on duty outside the bunker. A faint whirr could be heard as a Pakistan Air Force helicopter appeared in the sky and began its descent. From within the bunker, the Prime Minister, informed by the captain, watched the approach of the aircraft that carried his Pakistani counterpart.
The chopper made a vertical descent and a smooth touchdown. A Pakistani soldier stepped out first, bending low. Next, the General emerged from the copter, bowing as he ran forward. The chopper’s rotor blades were spinning. It was imperative to keep the engine running to prevent it dying from snow. The General’s aide-de-camp, Aziz Mirza, followed him crouching. The General had the briefcase in his hand, Harry noted.
In the couple of years that he had got to know the man, he had never seen him release that case into another’s care. Today, of course, the General was carrying precious cargo in that case, evidence of his good intentions. The architect of the Kargil War was making peace overtures, but India had learnt that trust in the General had to be built on concrete proof. Today, the ex-hawk would deliver that evidence and seal the deal that Harry and Aziz Mirza, aides-de-camp to the premiers of the two nations, had pursued for two years.
The Prime Minister made to move forward in greeting. Harry watched the General and the escorting soldier straighten up as they moved out of the circumference of the rotating chopper blades. Some distance behind, Aziz Mirza was still hunching forward. The soldier stayed close to the General, shuffling along as if he were in a three-legged race with an asynchronous partner. Harry watched his progress with narrowed eyes. The next instant Harry thrust the Prime Minister back into the bunker with his right hand. He took off like a sprinter, legs pumping pistons, gesticulating with his left arm to Aziz to back off. A gun was in his right hand as he bounded down the hundred-odd metres separating the General from the bunker.
His shout was lost in the chopper’s noise. A perplexed Aziz cocked his head towards the General who had come to a nonplussed halt. The soldier now held a grenade in his hand. As he made to pull the pin, Harry had him in his crosshairs. He pulled the trigger as the soldier was depositing the live grenade in the pocket of the General’s military jacket.
A ball of flames erupted in the snowy landscape, lighting up the darkness. The impact flung Harry backwards. As his body arced through the air, his head hit the ground first on landfall. He blacked out.
Interior Afghanistan
Sunday 7 a.m.
Even the hens knew something was amiss.
In the beginning they had clucked alarmingly as they skittered across the mud floor of the coop. Then went quiet, deathly quiet, as they realized, with that peculiar animal instinct for danger, that safety lay in being mute witnesses. They sat in a tight huddle, feathers fluffed up in defence, as two men dug the earth around the coop whilst several clustered behind them watching.
A short distance to the right of the coop stood the owner’s house, a single story mud dwelling common to the area, the wall enclosure overhung with pomegranate trees. In front of this house a string cot was pulled up and a lone man sat on it. Despite the available seating space on the cot two other men flanked it standing, their faces immobile as they watched the digging in silence. One of the men had a dohol, a cylindrical drum with two skinheads, slung around his neck.
The man on the cot was dressed like the others in a baggy shalwar but sported a bomber jacket over his kameez instead of the wool shawl the others had draped. He wore a white turban in crinkled cotton, one end loosely hanging over his left shoulder. His face was fair, eyes deep-set, hazel, with an unblinking stare that gave the distinct impression of being able to read another’s thoughts. Of medium build – at five-foot nine, he was shorter than the average strapping man the mountainous region produced – his scraggly whiskers were an apology in a land of flowing beards. Yet, the man had presence. To what exactly it could be attributed was difficult to ascertain. Perhaps it was the deep baritone voice, unexpectedly emerging from an average frame, or the manner in which he spoke, head tipped down, measured, giving an impression of a learned man in a land scarred with illiteracy. Perhaps it was the erect bearing that saw him sit upright even on a string cot, or the intensity emanating from him, the light-footed gait, the flinty vigilant demeanour… Whatever the factor, the force field of his presence was real; otherwise men twice his size would not be standing to attention. His name was Babur Khan.
A chill wind picked up and the men burrowed their faces deeper within their shawls, all except Babur Khan. He continued his impassive survey of the proceeding. The rustling subsided, stillness returned to the gathering, the only sound pickaxes gouging earth as a fruity fragrance of ripe pomegranate wafted above. When the hole was two metres deep beneath the chicken coop, one man broke away from the crowd of onlookers and approached the cot. He bowed to Babur Khan and spoke softly. Receiving a single nod in response, he straightened up, beckoned to another man and the two proceeded to the mud house. A few minutes later they reappeared with a girl shrouded in a blue chador. They gripped her upper arms and shoved her forward. Her hands were tied behind her back, her walk jerky.
The sixteen-year-old girl had befriended a mal
e neighbour and was caught by her father in conversation with him as she picked eggs from the chicken coop. Deeming it inappropriate, the enraged father sought the counsel of the elders in the village. They, in turn, decided to consult the new Pathan leader of the area, a man who was both literate and versed in the Quran, and had developed quite a following of late. In a short span he had become a legend and stories of him abounded: he had slept with the enemy, he was the best sharpshooter the Amrikaayi army ever had, and since he had crossed over from the other side, he was privy to all of their secrets and thus was stronger than them…
Babur Khan, the prodigal son, had returned to fulfil his destiny, the country’s destiny; and he had a vision for his countrymen. This vision was in resonance with his name – Babur meant tiger – and he transmitted it through his well-attended sermons: Afghanistan was in ruins not because of the invaders alone, the enemy was also within, the Poppy Palace Pashas.
Poppy Palace Pashas were the drug lords whose grandiose houses stood out in a land of unadorned mud dwellings like opium poppy flowers in a cotton field. The inflow of US dollars and the burgeoning opium trade had widened the chasm between the haves and have-nots. Babur Khan had seized on the frustration and angst of a people, one-third of whom lived in absolute poverty. The candy-coloured mansions had sprouted beside cratered streets – all Babur Khan had to do was to point at the evident disparity. He exhorted the men to spurn the joint hegemony of American invaders and Poppy Palace Pashas, to arise and rebuild their ruined land. He ended each sermon with a popular Pashtun saying – He is not a Pathan who does not return a blow for a pinch – and his followers multiplied because he had personally demonstrated that maxim.
THE HUNT FOR KOHINOOR BOOK 2 OF THE THRILLER SERIES FEATURING MEHRUNISA Page 1
