What was Raghav alluding to? She was travelling in some sort of cargo aircraft of the Indian Air Force. The grey plane had a prominent tricolour stamped on its sides and its only passengers were Mehrunisa and her escort. She had tried to source information from her taciturn companion but only learnt that the man was employed by the army and tasked with ferrying her to Srinagar. Had she known that the aircraft was an AN 32 Cline headed for Leh with its cargo of rations for the soldiers stationed at the high-altitude base, her speculation might have turned closer home.
When Mehrunisa stepped off the aircraft clutching her handbag and a small strolley, the cold air hit her. December in the Valley was significantly colder than in the plains of Delhi and she looped her turquoise pashmina shawl twice around her neck, tucking the ends inside her leather jacket. The runway they had landed on was at a distance from the commercial hub of the airport. Her escort indicated a jeep parked at some distance to the right, offered a stiff handshake and retreated. A figure reclining against the vehicle straightened and began to walk towards her. Raghav was not in his policeman’s uniform, but in casual trousers, sweater and a dark blazer. He greeted her with a raised hand as he jogged towards her.
‘Mehrunisa! Long time!’
‘Did you throw in the drama as compensation?’
Raghav laughed and gave her a quick hug before reaching for her strolley. ‘You’ve been well?’
Mehrunisa shrugged. ‘The same,’ she said, and fell in step with him. At the jeep Raghav hoisted her suitcase into the boot, then stood back, hands on his hips, and regarded her. He had a luxuriant moustache that unfurled outwards and upwards from under the bridge of his slim nose. It provided a striking contrast to his clean-shaven chin and his compact body.
‘So what is this urgent task that is bigger than the Taj conspiracy?’
‘Get out of the cold first, shall we.’ He held the passenger door open for her. When Raghav had taken the driver seat, his left hand resting on the gear stick, he flashed a brief smile at her before turning to survey the runway. The cargo aircraft of the Indian Air Force had started to taxi, the sound of the running motors filled the air.
‘Do you know the nature of my work?’
Mehrunisa turned to look at him but he was studying the vista ahead. The quiet in his voice bothered her but she played it light. ‘Conspiracy specialist?’
‘Raw.’
At Mehrunisa’s knitted brow he continued, ‘I was recruited a year back. You know, R-A-W?’
‘Intel.’
Raghav nodded. ‘Exactly. My business is intelligence and my region is our hostile neighbour Pakistan.’ He looked at her directly. ‘I’m a spy now.’
Mehrunisa felt a jab in her stomach but refused to acknowledge it. ‘Exciting work, eh?’ and looked away as if conducting a reconnaissance of the horizon. ‘So where is this excavation site you wanted to show me?’
‘There is no excavation site,’ Raghav said quietly. ‘Perhaps you figured that. There is something else which concerns you. I’m taking you to my boss’ office – he is looking forward to meeting you.’
Mehrunisa swivelled in her seat and faced Raghav directly. Her eyes were green, a shade that the normally grey-green eyes reflected only in times of extreme emotion. Which was rare. Legend had it that Michelangelo, the great Renaissance artist and Mehrunisa’s favourite, said that he did not sculpt; he only set the figures within the marble free. In a reversal of sorts Mehrunisa had, years back, cast herself in marble – cool, implacable – after the disappearance of her father. She had tunnelled the resulting anger and recrimination deep inside her, sealing it off with a glacial demeanour. Now, despite her anger, she forced herself to speak slowly.
‘Cut this cat-and-mouse game, will you? I’ve travelled one hour on a cargo plane from Delhi, leaving a very sick relative behind, as well as my work. So do me the courtesy of a straight answer.’
Raghav blew air noisily out of his nostrils. It made the tips of his bushy moustache spring up. ‘I wish there was a way to make it easier, Mehrunisa. Look,’ he raised a palm in some form of apology, ‘I am following orders. Okay? But you know where this is leading, right?’
‘Should I?’
‘Yes. My boss is a spy.’
Mehrunisa continued to regard him mutinously.
‘He worked with your father.’
Mehrunisa gritted her teeth. She swung her head and watched the cargo plane take off. Of all the wild speculations her mind had produced during the flight to Srinagar, this had never surfaced. Her heart was jostling within the rib cage and she could feel sweat trickle down her back. How did Raghav know about her father? Who was this boss? And why had he summoned her to Srinagar now?
Raghav shifted the gear stick and the engine started to growl. ‘He knows your father.’
Knows your father. Mehrunisa did not miss Raghav’s use of the present tense. Knows. She clasped her hands tightly as her mind went into a blur. A sudden warmth had built up within her and she could feel perspiration breaking out. She was familiar with this sensation; it came every time she awoke from nightmares of The Beheadings. But this was happening in daylight. She closed her eyes and attempted to control her breathing.
The jeep started to roll smoothly.
Srinagar, India
Monday noon
At the 92 Base Army Hospital a nurse in starched white was seated at reception but Raghav walked right past her, Mehrunisa following. She did not miss the security detail nor the absolute quiet of the vestibule that branched off from the foyer of the hospital. Ahead Raghav had come to a halt outside a dark wood door. As she approached he swung the door open, stepped aside, waiting for her to enter first.
A man seated behind a large table stood up. ‘Mehrunisa! It’s good to meet you. I am Jag Mishra.’ His mouth stretched in a brief smile.
He was short – no more than five-foot seven – and squat. A dome-like head fringed with grey hair sat atop thick shoulders without the encumbrance of a neck. He was dressed formally in a dark grey suit, white shirt, and a charcoal necktie with diagonal white stripes. He gave the impression of a high-ranking bureaucrat, but something in his demeanour was more arresting than that of a paper pusher. The features of his square face were well-spaced: a thin mouth, a broad, tapering nose, honey-coloured eyes, prominent brows where black hairs were waging a losing battle with white. He was old, not in the sense of debility, but with the air of someone who had seen a lot. And his eyes, which were studying her, were alert and assessing. He did not proffer his hand, Mehrunisa noted. Which was good – she was not feeling friendly. He indicated a chair opposite him, which she took. Raghav stood to one side, his arms across his chest.
Mehrunisa gave Jag Mishra a cool smile and came direct to the point. ‘Raghav tells me you know a man who claims to be my father?’
‘Not claims. Is your father,’ Jag Mishra nodded pleasantly, the small smile flashed again on his face as if he were exchanging pleasantries.
‘How can you claim that? What proof do you have? And what is he doing here, with you?’
Calmly Mishra said, ‘One question at a time. First: How can I claim that? Harinder Singh Khosa is your father’s name, right? You agree. And you will also agree that your father worked as a spy with the Indian government, in the AfPak region. That much information you are aware of since your mother conveyed it to you on her deathbed.’
Behind the cool façade Mehrunisa felt herself crumble, just as the finest marble did when the sculptor’s chisel encountered a vein in it. ‘But,’ she began, then searched for words, ‘How do you know this, any of this – about my mother...’ She trailed off and looked at Jag Mishra searchingly.
‘Quite simple, my dear; for an intelligence agency it’s routine work. And for one that has kept an eye on you for the last seventeen years, we’d be remiss if we were not aware of the circumstances of your mother’s passing.’
&
nbsp; ‘Seven-teen years!’ The force of her reaction made Mehrunisa spring up in her chair.
‘Yes, one-seven,’ Mishra said. ‘In Florence your apartment had a south-facing window that never latched properly. In Delhi you like to go for early morning runs in the gardens of Humayun’s tomb. Professor Kaul’s favourite dish is Shahjahani pulao, which you cook for him. Rana Pratap Singh of the CBI is in love with you but you remain noncommittal. You carry your mother with you wherever you go – that Birkin is your inheritance.’
It was a while before Mehrunisa closed her open mouth.
‘Why? Why am I of interest to you?’
‘Because you are the daughter of Harry, our ace spy. And while Harry’s mind has chosen to shut off and forget that part of his life which deals with his wife and daughter, we at the agency make it our mission to ensure his family stays safe.’
Mehrunisa’s eyes flashed, green flecks lighting up the irises. Jag Mishra had touched a nerve, one that led to that ancient wellspring which bonds an offspring to a parent, one that stands unsevered in the face of all life’s tribulations.
‘While he does your dirty work for you!’ she spat out.
Mishra raised his brows. ‘Dirty work! Now why would you label your father’s work such? You do realize the criticality of his work, don’t you?’ Before Mehrunisa could answer, he continued smoothly, ‘Of course, it wouldn’t have been easy growing up without a father, presuming him dead when he was alive, missing out on his paternal presence...’
‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’
‘Oh but I am not. I did what was my duty. Are you familiar with the Bhagavad Gita, Mehrunisa? Karmanye vadhika raste ma phalesu kadachana… Chapter 2, verse 47. It says that your duty is only to your task, to your action, not to the result of that action. And you must not blame your father. He did it all for a higher cause.’
‘Higher cause! Aria fritta!’ Mehrunisa snorted. ‘And what higher cause are you talking about? Bugging rooms and eavesdropping and whatever snarky stuff it is that you do…’ She stood up. ‘I want to see him.’
Quietly, Mishra continued, ‘Infiltrating enemy lines, establishing a network of agents who can pass on confidential information, information that can save lives and prevent wars. Your father was instrumental in ending the separatist militancy in Punjab in the ’80s, and recently he has been at the helm of negotiating a historic settlement with our neighbour – if it comes through we would have settled the issue of Kashmir with Pakistan once and for all. And we can look forward to rebuilding this area and bringing succour not only to Kashmiris but to the two nations as well. I would not belittle such work.’
He regarded Mehrunisa, who was still standing, her back upright, arms across her chest. ‘Your angst is entirely understandable, of course. But now you have a chance to reconnect with your lost father. You will meet him and get to know him. And who knows what the future holds?’
Mehrunisa’s eyes narrowed. ‘I want to see him now.’
Jag Mishra probed the curling hair at the end of his right brow. ‘Come, come Mehrunisa, don’t you want your other two questions answered. What proof do we have? And what is he doing here?’
‘I think I’ll ask him directly.’
‘But of course,’ Mishra assented. ‘Except, he is not in much of a condition to talk. The doctor has advised him rest.’
Mehrunisa could see the game this Gita-spewing, Buddha-demeanoured man was playing. Alternating the good cop-bad cop routine with her, he was trying to make her putty, ready for moulding the way he wanted. Should she play along? But the reason Mehrunisa had donned a glacial mask years back had been overturned, and she was finding herself on shaky ground.
In his soft voice Jag Mishra talked about a bomb explosion that had killed the President of Pakistan and injured Harry. And the President’s briefcase with information on the next terror attack planned on Indian soil by Pakistan-based jihadis was incinerated in the same explosion.
‘Which brings me to why you are here Mehrunisa; you, who have nothing to do with our business, technically. Please, sit.’ He paused, steepled his hands on the table, then regarded her frankly. ‘In our business, things change with the rapidity of teen fashion. And as it stands, you are our best bet for preventing this attack from happening.’
Mehrunisa’s head snapped up in surprise and incredulity. ‘ME?’ She half-laughed. ‘Me?’
‘You saved the Taj Mahal, Mehrunisa, single-handedly.’ As she made to protest, he added, his palms waving, ‘Okay, so you got some assistance from Raghav here and the CBI officer, but really, you were the brains that cracked the conspiracy. And in doing that you showed remarkable courage and resilience.’
‘I got lucky.’
‘Come Mehrunisa, you should give yourself more credit.’
Mehrunisa shot up, the chair tipping backwards, rescued in fall by Raghav’s extended arm. ‘This is ridiculous! I don’t know what kind of outfit you are running here, or who your informants are. But you are mistaken. You should listen to yourself – it sounds like a load of hokum.’
‘Sit down Mehrunisa, we aren’t finished yet.’
‘I am.’ She grabbed her bag and turned to go.
In a quiet voice Mishra said, ‘The next terror attack by Pakistan Taliban will be carried out on Indian soil on this Thursday, the seventh. It is four days away. That gives us exactly ninety-six hours in which to track down that document and prevent the attack from happening. Otherwise, we will lose innocent lives, men, women and children, and we’ll probably be looking at another war with Pakistan. Our fifth. The outcry after the last terror attack has ensured that we answer the next with full-scale war. Are you ready to take responsibility for that war, Mehrunisa?’
She turned to glare at Mishra. ‘Clever. Emotional blackmail now.’ She flung her right hand upwards. ‘Don’t you see? I am an art conservator and historian. I preserve artwork. My expertise relates to a time period that is four hundred years back. There is no skill I can offer that can solve your problem.’
Jag Mishra’s mellow eyes had an intensity that was simultaneously at odds with him and yet congruent. Mehrunisa found herself in its crosshairs. ‘The most important aspect of any conservation is prevention, right? And that isn’t glamorous work. The attributes it requires are perseverance, patience, doggedness, attention to detail. You fit the bill Mehrunisa, you do.’
‘There’s one quality you forgot: passion. A conservator needs passion for her work. Why should I be passionate about your task?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. Passion will come, once you learn all the facts. First, by beginning to understand that you are here and there is no turning back. You are already in this Mehrunisa. Your father is in this city, in this very building, a few rooms away and you have the chance to meet him after years. In addition, you have the chance to take over from where he has left off and ensure that the next attack is thwarted.’
‘And how will I do that?’
‘Your father will lead you – and desire for his safety will motivate you. And Raghav will be there all through to ensure your safety. I can’t entrust this operation to anyone else.’
Abruptly Mehrunisa laughed. ‘But of course.’ She shook her head. ‘I was being dense but now I see your game plan.’ She walked towards Mishra’s desk and leaned forward, supporting her weight on both hands splayed on the desk. ‘We, my father and I, are both expendable, aren’t we? One doesn’t exist to the outside world and the other can be collateral damage.’
Mishra returned her gaze evenly. ‘Put bluntly, yes.’
‘Have you considered the fact that I don’t even know how to use a gun?’
‘You won’t need a gun Mehrunisa, that’s not your strength. You will need this.’ Mishra bent down and picked up a plastic bag. From within he withdrew a black burqa. ‘What the mullahs forget is that when a woman wears a burqa, it hides her looks, not her br
ain.’
As she eyed it hesitantly, he added, ‘You’ll need to practise walking in it though.’
‘And what prevents me from walking out of here and disappearing?’
Jag Mishra gave a tolerant smile. ‘I am an intelligence man, Mehrunisa. When I am not tracking the jihadi militants in Pakistan I am spying on my own mother. The way I see it, you don’t have much of a choice. It’s the document or your father.’
Karachi
Monday noon
Qari Abdullah had the look of a wizened old man. It did not help that for an Afghan he was small and thin, almost drowning in his large turban’s loose end as he shuffled down the road. His manner, while not furtive, was that of a man who wished to be inconspicuous. In the rundown neighbourhood on the outskirts of Karachi he blended right in with his white shalwar kameez, black turban and a cheque shawl draped such that it obscured part of his face.
In an open playground bordered by shrubbery beyond which sprouted low-rise unadorned apartment blocks, a bunch of boys played cricket. Three stones placed one atop another served for wickets. Qari Abdullah scrutinized the boys before hurrying into a plain brick building. It was a madrasa, a local religious school where young boys were provided with food, lodging and religious education. The only subject they learnt was recitation of the Quran, that too in Arabic, a language they did not know.
Inside the building’s quadrangle, Qari Abdullah exchanged greetings with the teacher, a block of a man whose trousers were hitched way above his ankles, in the fashion of peasants, and a henna-coloured wavy beard. Abdullah enquired softly, ‘How’s he doing?’
‘Good, good,’ the mullah nodded enthusiastically. ‘Ready, very ready.’
Qari Abdullah nodded, shook his hand and said, ‘I’ll go inside to talk to him.’ The mullah extended a hand in the direction of the corridor that branched into rooms. As he watched Abdullah shuffle towards the corridor, the mullah bore the smug smile of one who had delivered on his promise.
THE HUNT FOR KOHINOOR BOOK 2 OF THE THRILLER SERIES FEATURING MEHRUNISA Page 5
