THE HUNT FOR KOHINOOR BOOK 2 OF THE THRILLER SERIES FEATURING MEHRUNISA

by Manreet Sodhi Someshwar

  Two months back a man had approached a CIA operative with the promise of information on Babur Khan that would lead to his capture and avert a planned attack. After he was checked out and found clean, a meeting was arranged with the CIA station chief at the Forward Operating Base in Khost. Scarcely had the team assembled when the man started muttering to himself in Pashto, reached inside his coat, and detonated a bomb that killed the station chief along with six other CIA officers.

  The General felt the familiar bile rise again. He returned to a perusal of the outdoors. The bearded eagle was perched on the tree again, a mouse in its claws.

  Srinagar, India

  Monday 1:06 p.m.

  Outside the door Mehrunisa paused, her hand clutching one end of her shawl, her feet seemingly glued to the threshold she had just crossed. Raghav hovered at a discreet distance, watching her. Several moments of scrutinizing the mosaic floor passed before Mehrunisa looked up. She was wan, the green in her eyes snuffed to slate. She tipped her head in Raghav’s direction. ‘I need some time alone.’

  Back in the seclusion of the washroom, Mehrunisa let out a ragged breath. Her mind was simultaneously a blank and a raging storm as she paced the tiled floor. Then she walked to the washbasin and clutched it with both hands. Leaning forward she glared at herself.

  Harry. That was what they called him, the man seated handcuffed and manacled in the room. The man whose full name was Harinder Singh Khosa – which was also the name of her father. In primary school math she had learnt the basic equation: if A equals B and B equals C then A must equal C. In the sparse world of numbers there was no accounting for the passage of time or the vagaries of life, nothing to reckon for the fact that C had gone missing for years and had now magically resurfaced. That C was older and greyer and had forgotten his family but not the Astaire fold of his silk kerchief. That she wanted to hug him and strangle him in the same instant. Mehrunisa’s eyes filled up and her mouth twisted as she let out a strangled scream.

  In that instant she was the little girl who wanted nothing more than to be safe within the arms of her father. But roles had reversed and it was up to the grown-up girl to save her father. Ever since her father had gone missing, Mehrunisa had been besieged by nightmares of his beheading. Now he had abruptly surfaced in her life, and Jag Mishra was offering him to her, with a caveat attached. If she failed, the axe would fall. Were those nightmares omens then, forewarning her of this particular eventuality?

  All those years of being told her father was ‘presumed dead’, of stumbling into myriad churches to pray – with its proximity to Vatican, wasn’t Rome the home of resurrection? – of refusing to give up… What demons had Maadar battled as she raised her, isolated from her family for having married a Sikh, alone in the knowledge that her husband was a snoop who had failed to return, fearful of what might yet befall them... All those years, the tears, the vigil for his face in crowds – it had paid off. Papa was alive, here, and it was up to her to ensure they never parted again. Mehrunisa shut her eyes and breathed in deeply.

  In front of her eyes were a girl and her father emerging from the portal of a pristine white gurudwara. The father had promised a story and they sat in the lush gardens amidst which the Sikh temple was situated. She tucked into her pershad and listened how, more than a hundred years back, a contingent of twenty-one soldiers of the Sikh regiment guarded the fort of Saragarhi against a ten thousand-strong Pathan army. To commemorate their valour the British had built Saragarhi Memorial Gurudwara.

  But how could twenty-one men fight ten thousand? the girl queried.

  They willed it, the father replied. When she didn’t comprehend, he elucidated: the motto of the Sikh regiment was, Nishchay kar apni jeet karo. Determine to win.

  Historians recall the mighty Battle of Thermopylae, he continued, in which twelve hundred Spartans died fighting the mighty Persian army. To my mind, the valour of Saragarhi is no less. These men are my heroes.

  Nishchay kar apni jeet karo.

  Mehrunisa pulled back from the washbasin and started to pace the tiled floor.

  She had once possessed a terrible temper. Papa said she inherited it from one of Maadar’s cousins, an eccentric artist who splashed paint on his work or hurled paint cans at hapless servants when unhappy. ‘You have to learn to be strategic with your anger, Mehr,’ he would counsel. ‘Channelize it into something useful.’ Mehrunisa struggled with that advice until her father disappeared. When all her angry fulminating did not bring Papa back, she funnelled the aggression deep down and shut it off with a glacial mask. However, the cool reasoning that she had cultivated all this while looked set to explode like some subglacial volcano.

  Mehrunisa straightened up, shook her head, sniffled and muttered: Nishchay kar apni jeet karo. Then she repeated it over and over. As she mouthed the words Mehrunisa was connecting with that fount that lay buried deep within her. If she was to accomplish the seemingly impossible mission she had been enlisted for, and beat the terrorists at their game, she would have to connect with the spirit of the twenty-one Sikhs.

  In order to secure the release of Harinder Singh Khosa and reclaim her father, Mehrunisa would determine to win: nishchay kar apni jeet karo.

  Srinagar, India

  Monday 1:22 p.m.

  Back in Jag Mishra’s office, the Director, Pakistan Desk indicated that Mehrunisa and Raghav take their seats in the two chairs across from his desk. Two teacups in saucers sat in front of them, the aroma of cardamom tea flavouring the air. His hands interlocked, he faced them and spoke to Mehrunisa. ‘Since your first stop is Lahore and–’

  ‘How do you know that? I still haven’t told you–’

  A look of faint annoyance rippled across Mishra’s lined brow.

  ‘Forgive me for being blunt Mehrunisa, but you’re dealing with the country’s premier spy agency. Credit us with some, for lack of a more appropriate word, intelligence,’ he said. His mouth moved in that brisk line that passed for a smile before he continued, ‘We heard every word of the conversation you had with Harry,’ his hand moved in an apologetic flourish, ‘your father. So, since your first stop is Lahore, a plane will drop Raghav and you just inside the border of India.’

  He swivelled his chair and flicked a button. Behind him a screen lit up with a map of northern India and Pakistan. A few more clicks and it zoomed into the border between the two countries. A red dot hovered over a text that said ‘Ferozepur’.

  ‘This,’ Mishra pointed, and said, ‘is where the plane will drop you. The town has a large Indian cantonment and the Sutlej River is the boundary line between the two countries. A soldier will guide you once you reach there. A road connects to Lahore, thirty kilometres away, and since the trade route was reopened, there are trucks that ferry between the two cities. You’ll find space in one such truck.’ He turned to face her again. ‘Any questions thus far?’

  Mehrunisa lifted her shoulders and her body language said: do I have an option? Mishra was a man of the old school and he knew it was imperative to get the young woman to see things from his perspective, even if she didn’t agree with it. He leaned forward. ‘Look, I know you don’t agree with our mode of operation and–’

  Mehrunisa snorted, ‘It’s difficult to sympathize with one who deceives his own.’

  Mishra tipped his head as if considering her remark. ‘In my trade I don’t come across too many young people, Mehrunisa. So humour an old man as he attempts to share his perspective.’ He tapped the thumbs of his interlaced hands as he pondered where to begin.

  ‘Young people believe the world is a fine place and as long as there is hope and optimism and the desire to do good, the world will be okay. People like you elected the US President in a marked departure from the earlier war-mongering President. A President they believe will lead the US to a better place. And yet, the same President appointed as his foreign policy advisor a man who was the originator and creator of the
Afghan strategy that led the US to where it is today. This man, Zbigniew Brzezinski, is of Polish origin and when he saw Poland fall into the Soviet bloc he migrated to the US. In the ’80s he proposed an arc of Islam in the near east to counter the Soviet arc – the intent was to destabilize the Muslim regions within the Soviet Union. When questioned whether this would lead to a radicalization of Muslims, do you know how he responded?’

  Mehrunisa studied him intently. Of course she knew about the US’ role in propping up various mujahidin factions in their fight with the Soviets in the ’80s. But was it true about this Brzezinski fellow? That the same man who was behind that earlier US policy was advising the President who had won the election on the plank of ‘change’? Politicians, like leopards, didn’t change their spots – cynical, but true. She sighed inwardly and prepared to pay more attention to Mishra as she tilted her chin in his direction.

  ‘He countered with a question of his own – What is more important: some stirred-up Muslims or the liberation of Central Europe? And this man, who is directly responsible for creating the Taliban, is now advising the US President on foreign policy. Moral of the story: realpolitik. The world is run on realpolitik, by men who will always view it through their own lenses. Brzezinski’s a Pole for whom saving Europe was important even while the Middle East went to rot.

  ‘Now, you regard our work as messy. And so it is. Because while the imperialists and war-mongerers are playing in our backyard, someone has to make sure that we Indians don’t end up on the sacrificial platter. The world remembers 9/11, yet how many are even aware of 26/11?’ His mouth was a thin line. ‘You’re free to disagree, just don’t sit in judgement.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Mehrunisa said with a lift of her shoulders as she locked eyes with Jag Mishra. ‘And since I’m already on the mission I want you to treat my father with more respect. Take off his cuffs and release him.’

  ‘At RAW we have the highest respect for your father, Mehrunisa. He is under restraint not because we disrespect him, but because we’re aware of how lethal an opponent he can be. And at this moment, as you know, he is not feeling particularly friendly towards us. It is all rather unfortunate but we can’t jeopardize the mission. Finish the task and you and your father will be united.’

  ‘But he knows I have accepted the mission. Surely once I’m on the case and in the field, you can let him go?’

  Mishra shook his head ruefully. He balled his fists on the table, closed his eyes briefly and exhaled. Then he fixed his scrutiny on her. ‘Do you know what your father is known as here at RAW?’

  As Mehrunisa looked on blankly, Mishra provided the answer, ‘Snow Leopard. Harry is the snow leopard. Why a “snow leopard”, you might ask?’ He paused.

  ‘Harry has spent his life navigating the treacherous Indo-Pak-Afghan region and shown exemplary skill and stealth in that. A snow leopard prefers cliffs and ravines – the terrain provides both cover and clear views to sneak up on prey. Harry is a hunter.’

  Mehrunisa was leaning forward as she listened, her interest evident.

  ‘I guess this aspect of your father’s life is unknown to you. Allow me to build your appreciation by narrating a specific incident. Are you familiar with the recent history of Afghanistan?’

  ‘I read the newspapers.’

  ‘That should help. To refresh your memory, the Soviets invaded Afghanistan in 1979, and in 1980, Najibullah was made the head of KHAD, the Afghan intelligence agency. Harry had started developing relations with KHAD by then – you know India was allied with the Soviets during the Cold War. Anyway, this relationship was further strengthened in the early ’80s when the foundation was laid for a trilateral cooperation involving the RAW, KHAD, and the Soviet KGB. In 1986 Najibullah was elected President and soon after the Soviets started their withdrawal after a decade of occupation.’ Mishra stopped to take a sip of water from the glass by his side.

  ‘Things, however, were not going too well for Afghanistan. The mujahidin, who had forced the Soviets to withdraw, rejected his offers of reconciliation. So Najibullah declared a state of emergency. In the decade or more that Harry had known him rise from KHAD to presidency, the two men had become close, Najib relying on RAW and therefore Harry, along with the Soviet KGB, for intel. In 1992 internal party divisions made Rabbani President and Najib sought asylum in the UN compound in Kabul.’

  Mishra pointed to the tea where a thin film had formed on the surface. Mehrunisa lifted the cup, blew the skin to the side and took a sip. Strong and sweet, not the type she favoured, but at present it was soothing.

  ‘However,’ Mishra resumed, jabbing the air with a pointed index finger, ‘the Taliban were growing in power and a civil war was raging. Najib knew that danger was imminent – he wanted his family relocated. The UN was in no position to help. That day Harry stole into the UN compound to meet with Najib, who seized the occasion to have his wife and two daughters escape from Kabul. He entrusted the task to Harry, knowing that India, his ally, would grant them political asylum. The question, however, was how to flee. Kabul was in chaos with the forces of various warlords battling one another.’

  Despite herself Mehrunisa was hanging on to every word. Raghav too was a picture of concentration as he absentmindedly primed a moustache tip.

  ‘Harry’s plan was typical of him – bold and apparently flying in the face of logic. He decided to quit Kabul, hit the highway to Jalalabad, cross the Khyber Pass and enter Peshawar. There, the women would be safe in the UN compound before they could be evacuated to Delhi. It was an audacious plan, mind you, for all roads leading out of Kabul were lined with the mujahidin by then. But your father – as you might know – is a fan of great historical battles, and apparently, he knew something the enemy didn’t. He bundled his co-passengers into his battered-looking Lada. It’s a Russian-made SUV, commonplace in Afghanistan, especially after a decade-long occupation in which several of those cars had been discarded and sold in the market. A rundown Lada would draw no interested looks. However, Harry’s Lada was only decrepit looking; it was in fact a new vehicle supplied by the Soviets and equipped with a German engine. As trouble built at the gates of the UN compound, Harry spirited the Lada out of the rear gate.’

  Mehrunisa shifted uneasily in her chair. The story was interesting but she knew Mishra was manipulating her with his portrayal of Harry as some sort of superhero. Lest he get too comfortable she held up a hand.

  Mishra paused.

  ‘If you’re trying to convince me what a hero my father is, I’ll take your word for it. However, relative to his hiatus of seventeen years as a parent – enforced by you – those heroics fall short.’

  Mishra pursed his lips and cupped his chin. After a thoughtful interval he wagged his head. ‘No, I think you should listen to the rest of the tale. It might give you some comfort that, in the years he was away from you, his work saved lives.’

  Srinagar, India

  Monday 1:45 p.m.

  ‘Have you ever travelled to Afghanistan?’ Jag Mishra asked as he settled back in his chair. When Mehrunisa answered with a curt shake of her head, he continued, ‘It is very appropriately a place of immense beauty and terror, and nowhere is that more apparent than on the route that Harry was to take that evening as he fled Kabul.’

  Mishra worked the remote in his hand and the screen behind zoomed into Afghanistan. The image it threw up was dramatic. A soaring mountain range crowned by mist, a corkscrew road whorling down its steep rock walls with a plunging chasm on one side. The craggy cliffs, ant-like vehicles, precipitous drops – all were out of her nightmares!

  ‘The Kabul gorge on Kabul-Jalalabad highway,’ Mishra’s voice broke into her thoughts, ‘sixty-five kilometres of pure terror. The gorge is narrow, bordered by perpendicular rock cliffs that rise to more than six hundred metres. Below flows the Kabul River.’

  Raghav, cradling his chin in his right hand, studied the image intently.


  ‘This stretch is so lethal that people have stopped keeping count of the number of accidents – all that is acknowledged is that while you may attempt the drive, there is no guarantee you will succeed. The average Afghan may have a driver’s licence, but it is not a comment on his driving skills.’ Mishra raised his brows in some indication of amusement but the moment was shortlived as he noticed Mehrunisa’s glacial expression.

  ‘So, Harry managed to head out of Kabul but there was a mujahidin jeep that had caught sight of the Lada, suspiciously speedy for a rundown vehicle, and its young commander decided to tail it. The women of Najib’s family were crouching on the floor of the Lada. Jalalabad was the midpoint of the Kabul-Peshawar run and Harry knew if he managed to cross the Kabul gorge, he’d be able to make the run for Pakistan. In the failing light of dusk he was negotiating the tortuous highway when he was brought to an abrupt halt. A truck had lost a tyre and was slung diagonally across the road, preventing any movement. There were only a few cars at that time of the day. Some had halted, the drivers examining the bus, while others were idling. Neither was an option for Harry.’

  ‘Were you with him?’ Mehrunisa asked.

  ‘Me? No. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Your narrative is so vivid. As if you were there.’

  Mishra pursed his mouth. His eyes took on a distant look. ‘My father was undergoing a bypass surgery in a hospital in Delhi following a heart attack. But I was in Peshawar, in the UN compound.’

  Mehrunisa did not miss the first sign of emotion that Mishra had exhibited. But he was quick to recover as he swivelled his chair away from the table and pointed to the screen. ‘By the roadside was an open-air stall where a man sat frying fresh fish.’ He scrolled through successive images of the charcoal-coloured cliffs until he rested on an image that showed a ramshackle stand pinned against a rock wall, bright oranges lined up on a wood plank. ‘A stall like this. Harry ambled up to the man and placed a large order and got talking.’