‘“See many accidents?” Harry asked.
‘“This is nothing,” the man quipped as he fired up his wok. “All day long I sit here and watch people crash. Usually a car flies by in the air,” he mimicked a plane taking off before plunging his hand dramatically to indicate the crash.
‘“You’ll help me crash my car?” Harry asked, sliding a packet of hashish across the table. “For services rendered.”
‘The man grinned, his stained teeth and henna beard glinting in the orange of the dusk as he popped some hash in his mouth and pocketed the balance. Next Harry got the women out of the Lada and instructed them to hide beneath the wooden table atop which sat the man’s wok and fish stock. A dirty sheet ringed the table enclosing an area beneath that was used for storage. As the women snuck into the cramped space, Harry, with the stall owner’s help, pushed the Lada over the road. Then Harry resumed his position beside the stall owner as he fried fish for him.
‘The waft of frying fish was soon punctured by dust. A jeep raced up the road and braked abruptly. Several mujahidin jumped out with their guns and fanned out. One came to the stall and enquired of the man if he had seen a Lada pass. The owner flew his left hand in the air, plunging it, and with his brows indicated the gorge. The man nodded and walked to the edge of the road. Further up, the stall owner prodded, and the fighter walked up and peered down. Then he yelled to his mates to look. As he saw the mujahidin huddle up, Harry scampered over to their parked jeep and crawled underneath. By the time the men had finished their aerial survey Harry was brushing his hands and paying the stall owner. One of the mujahidin joked about eating fish and Harry waved in acknowledgement. Then they turned back and went tearing down the road. A minute later a loud crash punctured the night air followed by a crash-bang. The stall owner leapt from his wooden stool and hurried round the bend.
‘Soon enough he was back, munching on some hashish, while his hand flew planes that plunged alarmingly.
‘That night, before ten, Najib’s family was inside the UN compound in Peshawar. By morning they were in Delhi, even as Kabul continued to be shelled. None too soon. In 1996 Najib was dragged out of the UN compound for an execution that would horrify the world.’
That Jag Mishra was a great narrator Mehrunisa had no doubt. The old man with a clinical air and a dry-as-dust voice had not only told a tale filled with intrigue and drama, he had become the dramatis personae. Despite herself she was impressed, but nowhere ready to acknowledge it. ‘Moral of the story?’ she asked.
‘Suffice to say the Snow Leopard delivered. Harry is simply the best in the field: a unique combination of brains and brawn coupled with a temperament that can withstand immense pressure. Harry returned a hero and I came back to cremate my father.’ Jag Mishra locked eyes with her.
Mehrunisa felt herself pinned down by that gaze. Mishra had spent a lifetime committed to work that was dangerous and demanding – it had hardened him. He meant business and he would brook no interference, not even the demise of a parent.
In a quiet voice Mishra resumed. ‘Do you know there has never been an unprompted snow leopard attack on a human being? The only time the cat becomes aggressive is if a) it feels threatened or b) feels its cubs are threatened. In this specific case, you will agree, both conditions are being met.’ Mishra spoke as was his habit, analytically, logically. His words, however, were twisting a knife through her.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, ‘A snow leopard can cross fifty kilometres of treacherous mountain terrain in one single night. If I were to set Harry loose, he’d be in the field before you. And in his present physical condition, that would be very dangerous. You agree?’
Wakhan, Afghanistan
Monday afternoon
A sliver of land in the far northeast of Afghanistan is the nineteenth century bastard of the Great Game between Russia and Britain. Squeezed between the feet of the mighty Hindu Kush and the soaring Pamirs, the narrow corridor of Wakhan was the butt crack of giants, R.P. Singh deduced when he first saw the map. Wakhan: a narrow panhandle of valleys and high mountains that bordered Tajikistan to the north, Pakistan to the south and China to the east.
Rana Pratap Singh was in Badakhshan as part of an elite unit sent by India to train Afghan police. R.P. Singh had a successful record of fighting Naxalites – who, like the Taliban, believed in hit-and-run tactics, aided by dense forest, here labyrinthine caves, into which they melted – and was skilled in handling insurgencies. The mission was being undertaken quietly in the northern regions to prevent drawing attention. India’s presence in the country through its aid efforts was increasingly ruffling Pakistani feathers.
A break in training due to upcoming Eid saw Singh heading for a trek in Wakhan. The peak season for trekking ended in September but snowfall happened even mid-summer. Besides, the trekker’s paradise was still free of Taliban – when again would he get a chance such as this?
That morning, after breakfast of yak milk, bread, tea and rock salt, R.P. Singh was walking the Wakhan Valley with his guide, Safdar. He’d started three days back in Qala-e-Panj – the confluence of two rivers, the Wakhan and Pamir. From there the road turned southeast into Wakhan Valley. He’d forded icy streams tumbling down from the Hindu Kush – which would have been bigger in summer because of the melted snow, Safdar helpfully pointed out – and braced Bad-e-Wakhan, the fierce wind that raged over the corridor. Initially, he reckoned he was doing okay, his Gore-Tex outerwear and sturdy mountain boots buffering him against the elements, until he began to be routinely overtaken by sheepherders in sandals. His ego could do with some hammering, Singh reasoned, as he exchanged a greeting with a passing Wakhi. This morning they were beginning the trek to Little Pamir. Safdar had organized a yak to help carry food and equipment over the mountain passes they’d cross.
Singh was soaking in the wilderness when his phone rang. A secure phone that was used only for communication with his team back home. Arvind Pradhan, the screen flashed. His ex-boss, Commissioner of Police of Madhya Pradesh, was now working on Natgrid, the national grid for intelligence being set up at the behest of the Home Minister who wanted one database to hold all information, to help prevent future terror attacks. His brow furrowed, Singh listened.
Where are you? Pradhan’s voice sounded grim.
Never mind. What’s up?
Listen, this is serious. How soon can you get to Lahore?
La-hore? Singh’s antennae were buzzing. Tell me.
What he heard next he couldn’t have concocted in his scariest nightmare. Pradhan divulged the intel he had stumbled upon: the woman Singh was in love with was being sent by RAW into Pakistan on a dangerous mission. Yes! Mehrunisa’s father, the legendary spy Snow Leopard, was alive but injured, Pradhan said as he updated him on the developments.
Singh felt lightheaded, from the chilly wind or the phone call. Mehrunisa. Spy. Kohinoor. Lahore. The words pinged in his brain and he saw them spinning in the air around him. As he followed them the mountains spun too.
Fool! Singh rasped. His voice rang out in the thin cold air. He shut his eyes tight and inhaled deeply. The rarefied air had made him giddy and Pradhan’s news had delivered the whopper. What he’d said was crazy but Singh trusted Pradhan enough to know it was the truth. Whatever RAW was gambling upon, Mehrunisa would certainly be in Lahore by evening.
In which case, the enemy wouldn’t be far behind.
In agony Singh closed his eyes: Mehrunisa’s grey-green eyes flashed in his mind. An art historian-cum-restorer had no credentials for hunting down terrorists – clearly she was a pawn in some elaborate game.
Srinagar, India
Monday 2 p.m.
‘Before you begin your mission I’d like you to get a basic grounding in the geopolitics of the region you are going to experience intimately over the next four days.’ Jag Mishra tipped his head at Raghav who immediately bounded for the door. He returned
within a minute with a bespectacled boy who looked like he had walked right out of college to join them.
‘Mehrunisa, meet Sabyasachi,’ Jag Mishra indicated with a lift of his right arm.
The manboy walked over and shook her hand. ‘Saby,’ he said. His grip was light and the hand cold and Mehrunisa wondered if he had really just stepped into the building from the crisp noon of Srinagar. ‘The name’s Sabyasachi Mukerji, but that’s a mouthful for most people,’ he grinned and added, ‘When I first moved out of Calcutta to study in Delhi, I figured shortening it made sense.’
‘And anglicizing our names is a national affliction.’ Jag Mishra was watching the interaction wearing his inscrutable expression. ‘Sabyasachi is a scientist from National Technical Research Organization, or NTRO. And he is here to brief you on how they are going to help you with your mission.’
Saby wagged his head good-humouredly before turning his attention to the projector. The boyish-looking scientist wore thick-framed nerdy spectacles, though in red. He had a quick smile and eyes that blinked with rapidity. Finished with checking the projector, he turned to address Mehrunisa. ‘Mr Mishra tells me you have been assigned a sensitive mission and need to be equipped accordingly.’
Mishra nodded for the young scientist to continue.
‘Sir,’ Saby acknowledged and took his position beside the white screen on the rear wall. Looking directly at Mehrunisa he said, ‘The NTRO is the “super-feeder” agency for providing technical intelligence to all other intelligence agencies set up after the Kargil War. Over the next five minutes I’ll provide you with a background on the geopolitics of the AfPak region, the role of the US in the same, and how things stand for India. If you have any questions–’
‘Hold them,’ Mishra interjected, ‘until the end.’ He turned towards her. ‘We can discuss them over lunch.’
Saby nodded and flicked a button on his hand-held remote. The screen flickered to life. Once again the map of the AfPak-India region came to life, momentarily, before it was girded with a headline; then Saby started his narrative.
Overview: The AfPak region is currently where the intelligence agencies of the world are most focused. Despite that, intel is often unreliable. This is due to the inherent nature of the region. The several parties involved there – US, Pakistan, Afghanistan and India – are dancing in a circle, each chasing the other and stepping on their tails. No one trusts the other and the only cooperation or sharing of information is done under mutually beneficial transactions. There is a deep lack of trust between the CIA and the ISI, and the ISI wants to broker talks between the US and Taliban on the condition that the other agencies on the field – the CIA, Britain’s M16 and Afghanistan’s National Directorate of Security – should cease independent talks. Obviously, this makes the US nervous.
US and Pakistan: Lately, tensions between the US and Pakistan have escalated as Washington demands that the Pakistani military ‘capture or kill’ Afghan Taliban leaders as well as top militants in Pakistan. These include the Afghan Taliban leadership living in Quetta and Karachi, as well as their allies such as Jalaluddin Haqqani and Gulbuddin Hekmatyar, who live in north Waziristan in the tribal areas abutting Afghanistan. Pakistan says it is too busy dealing with its own acute problems with the Pakistani Taliban and a growing number of terrorist attacks by various insurgent groups. Its forces are overstretched, it has little money, and it will oblige the Americans only when it is ready to do so. In fact Pakistan would never launch a military offensive against the Afghan Taliban leaders since it has viewed them as potential allies in a post-American Afghanistan, when the US will withdraw troops from the country as per President Obama’s plan.
ISI and the Taliban: Pakistan’s military is deeply fearful of a US withdrawal from Afghanistan; the result could be civil war and mayhem in its backyard once again. The army is also convinced that the US will eventually align itself with India and that it has allowed India to strengthen its influence in Kabul at Pakistan’s expense. They count the Afghan Taliban as their recourse. If you recall, the Taliban was originally composed of young men who had grown up in madrasas in the refugee camps of Pakistan – their ideology was sired by Pakistan.
The ISI has power and influence over the Taliban. Not only are the Taliban able to resupply their fighters from Pakistan, and seek medical treatment and other facilities, but the families of most Taliban leaders live in Pakistan where they own homes and run businesses and shops. Taliban leaders travel to Saudi Arabia on Pakistani passports. All this makes them vulnerable to ISI pressure. Even before the US military can consider co-opting mid-level Taliban commanders, both sides would have to ascertain how this would play with the ISI.
Implications for India: The Pakistani army wants to control future events in Afghanistan in order to avoid encirclement by India – if a Taliban government is formed in Kabul, India will have no role to play. Historically India has supported the Northern Alliance, ethnically different from the Pashtuns, who form the Taliban. The Pashtuns view their homeland as Pashtunistan, which spills over the Durand Line into Afghanistan and Pakistan. Pakistan’s own Pashtun population is more than twice the size of Afghanistan’s. While there are twelve million Pashtuns in Afghanistan, a total of twenty-seven million live in Pakistan. This has immense security implications for India – 26/11 was organized by Pakistan Taliban and a future Taliban government in Afghanistan would only lead to more brazen and frequent attacks on India.
Who killed the President? There are two prime suspects: the Tehriki-i-Taliban Pakistan, or TTP. As you are aware, they comprise the Taliban, both Afghan and Pakistani, who were unhappy with the General for allowing access to the US army to bomb them and for drone warfare. Second, a rogue ISI member who does not want a resolution on Kashmir. It could also be a combination of the two. The Thursday attack could come from any of them.
Saby turned from the screen to look at his audience. ‘That brings me to the end of my presentation. I’ll now show you the special phone you’ll carry and explain how to use it. But before that I’d like to leave you with one thought.’
He turned to the screen and changed the slide again. A picture popped up. It was a photograph widely circulated on the internet, reproduced on TV frequently, printed in the national dailies and magazines. A young man held a gun in his hand, a backpack on his shoulders, as people fled in panic. The shot was of the lone surviving terrorist of the 2008 Mumbai attacks. Invading from the Arabian Sea, the militants had fanned across the city and launched several coordinated shootings and bombings. One hundred and sixty-six people died, many more were injured.
As a horrified Mehrunisa looked at the image, red text in bold slid onto the screen:
WE CAN’T AFFORD A REPEAT
Sarhad, Northern Afghanistan
Monday 1:06 p.m.
There was a reason R.P. Singh had such success fighting insurgents in India: he could think like the enemy. Mehrunisa was safe until she located the Kohinoor. Lahore would just be the start of the hunt. And if he had to protect her he would have to be furtive enough to stay hidden from the eyes of her enemies. But time was of essence.
However, Singh couldn’t have found himself in a more inconvenient location. To the south ranged the piercing peaks of the Hindu Kush. In the north the Pamirs framed the border with Tajikistan. Beyond lay China. Down this very remote and beautiful road Marco Polo had travelled in the thirteenth century as he navigated the Silk Route. That great explorer, though, had had all the time in the world. Singh pursed his lips as he consulted the map again. He had spent the previous night in a tent pitched at the edge of a lake. Safdar, his guide, had taken shelter with the local Kirgiz nomads. They awoke to a light snow and icy wind, ploughing through which for six hours had brought them to Sarhad-e-Borghil, 3265m above sea level and at the end of the Wakhan Valley.
Sarhad was meant to be the starting point of the trek. The plan was to cover at least two passes, the 4887m-high Uween-e-S
ar Pass being the biggest challenge. Now an abrupt change of plan was needed. Instead of east he would head south to a path that wound up to the Boroghil Pass that continued further into Pakistan. As Singh discussed the change of plan with Safdar, dust devils spiralled in the desolate valley.
The puzzled guide agreed that, yes, the fastest way to reach Pakistan was to trek up to Boroghil Pass on the border with that country and sneak in – it was closed to visitors. But it was a six-hour hike, at the least, and by the time he reached the pass, temperatures would have dropped below freezing. And then he would encounter hostile border sentinels.
Misreading Singh’s change of plan for cold feet, Safdar finally offered: Nature is brutal, sure, but the Pamirs aren’t half as dangerous as those trigger-happy border guards. Choose what you must.
Srinagar, India
Monday 2:53 p.m.
Lunch was a modest affair in another sparsely furnished room in the building. Mismatched chairs were drawn up at a table covered with a white sheet. The food consisted of steaming yellow dal, fresh rice, spicy jeera aloo, plain curd and sliced onion.
Mehrunisa, however, wasn’t up to eating. The events of the day had hollowed out her stomach and her mouth was acrid, whether from throwing up earlier or from the disorienting revelations.
Raghav, noticing that she had barely touched her food, urged her sotto voce to eat. ‘On the field you don’t know when your next meal will be. Eat, if only to give you energy.’
THE HUNT FOR KOHINOOR BOOK 2 OF THE THRILLER SERIES FEATURING MEHRUNISA Page 8
