Mehrunisa nodded and looked away. She hadn’t visited the border town since her return to India. There were too many memories of childhood visits with her father to the ancestral home, Saragarhi Gurudwara, and the Indo-Pak border to watch another Beating the Retreat ceremony at dusk. But if she had, she might just have bumped into Harry, the Snow Leopard...
The flight would last under an hour and the two were hoping to get to Begum Ameena’s house in Lahore before she retired for the night. Time was of essence, as Jag Mishra had reiterated – the clock was counting down to Thursday, the seventh.
The Kashmir winter ensured the day quickly morphed into night, and it was dark as they flew overhead. Before boarding the copter Mehrunisa had gone to the washroom and attempted to practise walking in the burqa. Expectedly, it was a disaster.
The diaphanous material was a forbidding tent. Feeling trapped inside, she tore it off and gulped air. Then she steadied her nerves and tried again. This time she took deep breaths to avoid the earlier pitfall. She managed to keep her hysteria in check but with just a rectangular mesh for her eyes, her spatial orientation was gone. A disjointed plod, arms spread-eagled as if she were on a tightrope. It would be utterly obvious to an onlooker that she was a novice, worse, fake. She would just have to better it in real life – there was no more time to practise.
From her backpack Mehrunisa now retrieved the envelope Jag Mishra had handed her. It wasn’t sealed, and she flipped it open. Nestled inside was a rosary. Cautiously, she tipped it onto her palm: a tasbih made of olive beads with a clay turbah and a green tassel. Maadar had the exact same one – the clay tablet came from the soil of Karbala, sacred to all Shias, and while she used it for her daily prayers, she had given another to her husband, thus ensuring he was within the circumference of the blessings she sought.
Mehrunisa felt grit in her eyes and closed them. Papa must have worn the tasbih around his neck all the time he was away; perhaps it had saved his life that fateful day… She felt the beads with her fingertips, then proceeded to wear the rosary around her neck, patting the turbah in place. Whatever faith Maadar had vested in that piece of sacred soil, she needed it to deliver one more time.
From within his black shoulder bag, styled like a golf bag, Raghav retrieved something, asked her to extend her palm and placed a gun on it. Mehrunisa shuddered and made no attempt to hold it.
His gaze level, Raghav said, ‘This is a Glock 19.’ Realizing she hadn’t heard, he spoke louder over the din of the chopper. ‘GLOCK 19. Good, reliable, lightweight weapon. Go on. Feel it.’
Mehrunisa held the metallic gun and felt repulsed by its cold weight.
‘Here,’ Raghav held her hand in his and showed her how to chamber a round. He spoke near her ear. ‘There is a triple safety system that secures the firearm against accidental discharge, so you don’t have to worry.’
‘Why do I need this? You’re here with me.’
‘Purely for defence.’
‘I don’t even know,’ she raised her voice at his furrowed brow, ‘HOW the HELL this WORKS.’
‘That’s easy.’ Raghav was yelling now. ‘Anyone can use a firearm, that’s why they’re dangerous. All YOU need to REMEMBER: KEEP YOUR NERVE. And don’t go for the legs, go for the mark.’
‘MARK?’
Raghav slashed the air near his shoulder, then groin, then moved his hand between the two. ‘Between shoulder and groin and all points within.’
‘And with that, I’ll get him?’ She held the gun upfront and pretended to take aim, a half-hearted attempt.
‘The guys you are against won’t waste a second killing you.’
Raghav cupped his hand against her ear. ‘You take out that gun for one single purpose: to shoot your target. And you don’t stop shooting until your target is finished.’
Mehrunisa swallowed and placed the weapon in her backpack. To keep her hands from shaking, she clutched them. ‘When did you become a spy?’
‘I was recruited a year ago and sent off for training to Israel.’
That’d be right after they, along with R.P. Singh, solved the Taj conspiracy. ‘Mossad?’ Mehrunisa shouted.
With a flick of his hand Raghav beckoned her closer. ‘We are all students of Mossad. After the last terror attack on Indian soil, 26/11, we have increased our cooperation with Mossad. They are admittedly the best spy agency in the world, and we’ – Raghav gave a rueful shrug – ‘have a lot to learn.’
‘About assassinations and abductions.’
Raghav looked at her unperturbed. ‘About how to keep India secure. 26/11 didn’t happen out of the blue. Intel was picked up regarding an impending attack but Mishra couldn’t rally the government to act. He blames himself. Which is why he’s determined to prevent another 26/11 – it is his cross to bear.’
‘Which he is lugging on my father’s shoulders.’
Raghav looked down and massaged his hands. Then he bent closer, his breath in Mehrunisa’s ear. ‘When in doubt about this mission, remember what witnesses said about the gunmen on their killing spree: they smiled and looked happy as they shot their victims.’ He peeled away.
‘Remember what is at stake.’
En route to Lahore, Ferozepur Road
Monday 7 p.m.
Raghav and Mehrunisa were in a tomato truck heading to Lahore. Mehrunisa pensive, Raghav quiet. Thus far things had gone smoothly.
Abruptly, Mehrunisa said, ‘Tell me about the Snow Leopard. Something. Anything.’
Mehrunisa was under immense strain, Raghav could see that. The shock of meeting her father had disoriented her. She was good with that glacial mask but he had worked with her before and read her, some. He cleared his throat. ‘I am personally not acquainted with him. But he is a legend.’
‘And?’ she insisted.
‘He is considered the best spy we’ve ever had. Tough, canny, a man’s man – who’ll watch your back on the field. And yes, he can lodge a bullet in your heart before you’ve finished blinking.’
Mehrunisa sighed. Raghav shrugged.
‘Remember the famous painting from the book The Da Vinci Code? Jesus at the last supper with his disciples?’
‘In which the disciple at Jesus’ side is actually his wife Mary? Or so the writer said?’
Mehrunisa nodded. ‘The Last Supper, yes. It’s a fresco – which means it is painted directly on a wall. When I was studying Renaissance art, our class went on a field trip to Milan to the convent where the fresco exists. Leonardo da Vinci painted it in 1498, and over the five hundred-odd years since, it has been painted over several times to make up for deterioration. By the late 1970s it was in such bad condition that a major restoration was begun. During our Milan trip we were fortunate to hear a lecture from the chief restorer, a woman who had worked on the painting for twenty years with her team.’
Mehrunisa paused, her eyes far away. Raghav waited. Admittedly, this conversation would have flummoxed him when he first met her. However, he had got to know her since and understood that art was a lens she often used for perspective.
‘The woman said her first task was to stop further deterioration of the painting. Over-painting from five hundred years of previous restorations was eating away at Leonardo’s original work. So she decided the most pressing task was to remove everything that had been added after the artist finished the painting in 1498.
‘As a restorer I try to remember that lesson. Sometimes, all that is required to connect with the original is to strip away the layers.’
Raghav gave a weighty nod, his mouth pursed upwards. His education in Renaissance art had begun with Mehrunisa – hell, he had witnessed her solve a major piece of the Taj conspiracy puzzle using inspiration from one of those Renaissance paintings!
Yes, Mehrunisa would find a way to connect with her father. Ensuring they stayed alive while accomplishing the mission, though, was what consumed him.
Srin
agar, India
Monday 8 p.m.
Harry was lying in the hospital bed, restraints on. He had met his child who believed he was dead. For seventeen years. Years in which he sleepwalked while his daughter grew up and his wife died without growing old. A parallel life that he had sealed away, the spy walling off his family, but to what avail? This was worse than any nightmare, the dread in his bones told him. Mishra was a master psychologist. With him trapped, he had used emotional blackmail on Mehr to accomplish his objective. But Mishra should know: Mehrunisa was no match for the men he had been fighting for three decades.
In front of his eyes swam a courtyard stained with blood. Pieces of flesh lay strewn about in the mud as if a goat that was to be slaughtered had run amuck. Nothing that simple though. Earlier in the day the warlord had punished a soldier for thievery. Tied to the tracks of a Russian-made tank, which was then driven around the courtyard, he was minced while his comrades stood around and watched.
These were beasts that flogged men for beards not long enough and women for wearing shoes that clicked on the ground as they walked. Who buried women alive for conversing with strange men.
The flinty face of a man flashed in front of his eyes. Babur Khan. The man Aziz and he had spent hours agonizing over as they progressed Operation Karakoram inch by inch. What role did the ex-American play in the messy tangle between Taliban, Al Qaeda and LeT? Like some shooting star he had zoomed onto the jihadi horizon but he remained elusive, his linkages within the AfPak terror land nebulous yet extant… With effort Harry wrested his mind away from Babur Khan. Thus far they hadn’t witnessed his footprint on Karakoram and now wasn’t the time to begin speculating – he needed to refocus.
The men who fought on the other side, whom the media labelled fundamentalists, militants, jihadi, Taliban fighters, Al Qaeda men, TTP, LeT and other such loaded acronyms, were not a regular enemy. They stood apart from any other fighter in one single sense: they were living ghosts. In his mother tongue Punjabi, he had found the word for them: mar-jiware, the living dead. So intent were they on the afterlife, on a life beyond earth that was filled with the promise of Paradise, they had stopped functioning as humans. They were approximations of autobots, commanded by fundamentalist clerics who had vacuumed their souls and filled them with hatred.
Fighting such an enemy required a different set of skills. There was no level playing field and the only way to counter them was to enter the arena and engage with them on their terms. Which meant that Harry had lost a part of his soul too in the battle with the militants. He could not have roiled with them in mud, chased them down ravines, broken bones for information, shot in cold blood without getting some of it on himself. He had been one man with his wife and daughter – a suave official of the Indian Foreign Service – and another when away from them. When his mind drew a veil over that gentler other life, was it guilt that had dictated it?
He had become a spy because he believed he was doing his country a service, but would he have continued that service as his daughter grew up and his wife grew old?
Mishra had declared that he would never have changed his ways – the loss of memory was unfortunate but for the best. Perhaps…
One thing was certain though – he had condemned his daughter to the gallows.
Lahore, Pakistan
Monday 8:33 p.m.
Raghav and Mehrunisa neared the palatial bungalow that was the residence of the ADC to the now deceased Pakistan President, Aziz Mirza. From a distance Raghav did a swift reconnaissance. One of the first rules of spying when entering the location of action was to establish a perimeter and assess it for entry and exit, for potential weapons of attack – could be something as innocuous as a can opener, a pencil, even a low-hanging clothes line – and study the different people within the encompassed area. How many? Who looked hostile? What weapons were on them?
Much as he had anticipated, a security cordon ringed the entrance gates. Helmeted soldiers with bayonets were visible behind sandbag columns. To the right of the gate, beside the red brick boundary wall was a green tent that likely served as temporary accommodation for the contingent of soldiers. Evidently, the Mirza residence had been under military siege for some time now. Not surprising in a country where the government was in a war with militants and looked increasingly to be losing control.
As planned, Raghav and Mehrunisa approached the sandbag soldier, Mehrunisa trying not to stumble in her burqa. She asked to meet Begum Ameena Mirza. ‘Wait,’ the wary soldier commanded. Soon another strode down the concrete pathway that led to the security booth at the entrance to the tall iron gates. He came to a halt and examined them before asking, ‘Purpose of your visit?’
Mehrunisa explained that the begum was a family friend.
‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow morning?’
‘Perhaps I can speak with her over the phone?’
The soldier beckoned to them to follow as he walked to the booth. Sliding a glass window, he extracted a phone and pressed a button. When the line came on, he informed the listener about the two visitors. Then he handed the phone to Mehrunisa. She flipped the face veil over her head.
‘Who is this?’ a woman’s high-pitched voice enquired.
‘Mehrunisa, Harry’s daughter.’
A pause. ‘Ha-rry’s daughter! He has one?’
Quickly Mehrunisa licked her dry lips. ‘Estranged,’ she said, and added, ‘I met him recently. He instructed me to pay you a visit.’
Another pause at the other end. ‘What brings you to Lahore?’
Mehrunisa racked her brains for the right answer. In all likelihood this phone was bugged, something the begum would doubtless be aware of. She would not reveal anything incriminatory over the phone. Yet Mehrunisa had to gain her confidence and get a meeting. As she wondered what to say, her father’s brisk, urgent advice came to mind: Zamzama.
‘I am an art historian by training, and my specialty is Mughal period,’ Mehrunisa said. ‘The plan is to see Lahore and its historical buildings.’
‘Yes,’ the woman said, ‘Lahore is famous for its Mughal architecture.’
‘Of course, my interest extends to other historic monuments as well.’
‘Such as?’
‘Zamzama,’ Mehrunisa supplied unhesitatingly. ‘Lahore’s most famous gun.’
The woman was breathing on the line, collecting her thoughts. Then she said, ‘Please return the phone to the officer.’
Mehrunisa did as instructed and waited. The officer kept the phone back and pressed a knob and the gate started to swing open. ‘Walk straight down to the main door,’ he indicated. As Raghav made to follow, he held one arm up. ‘Only the lady is invited.’
Chitral, Pakistan
Monday 8:35 p.m.
Crossing Boroghil Pass eventually turned out to be anti-climactic. Under cover of dark Meharban led Singh south of the border guard post. The region was desolate and the freezing night temperature ensured they encountered no one as they trekked towards the house of the guide’s Chitrali cousin.
It was a baipash, Meharban explained, a traditional Chitrali house. Once inside, they encountered the entire family at once. All were gathered in one large room with a kitchen in front. A fire burnt in the hearth around which people were clustered on homespun rugs. A single hole in the wood roof allowed smoke out. That was where they spent their time during the long winter months, Singh figured, heat from stove and multiple bodies keeping them warm. Through Meharban, he thanked them for inviting him inside.
They were offered tea and bread, which both were happy to gobble after the six-hour trek accomplished in under five hours. Meharban enquired for transport from his cousin. Pakeezah Coach’s nightly bus service would take Singh to Islamabad in seven to eight hours. It departed at 9:30 p.m.
Singh groaned. With no time to lose, an ambling yak wouldn’t help. Then Meharban laughed aloud – had Sahib taken
him seriously about the yak? It was Chitral; Wakhan no more, he trilled!
Singh embraced Meharban, thrusting a roll of Afghanis into the boy’s hand, before hopping onto his cousin’s Chinese-made 200cc motorcycle. Riding pillion he reached Chitral bus stand as the bus was clanking its way out. Banging on its metal body brought the vehicle to a halt. As it idled, R.P. Singh thanked his benefactor and attempted to compensate him with cash. The Chitrali tradition of hospitality wouldn’t allow that though.
R.P. Singh clambered into the bus, reflecting on the past few hours. Help had come from unexpected quarters. Safdar and his clan, may the Wakhi god watch over them! And may his luck continue to hold.
Once again he tried to contact Pradhan. There was a faint signal but he couldn’t get through. After their first conversation, Singh hadn’t been able to connect with him again. Mehrunisa would be in Lahore… Raghav and she were a good team – they had worked together on the Taj conspiracy case. Raghav was a man of integrity; resourceful and brave. Mehrunisa was astute and didn’t crumble under pressure. That had to add up to something.
Singh wasn’t the praying sort, but that frigid night, as the bus wheezed its way down the rolling hills, he shot an approximation of a prayer to heaven which, at that height, was definitely closer. And he started to plan ahead.
Lahore, Pakistan
Monday 8:53 p.m.
Mehrunisa was led into a living room where her
feet sank into a plush carpet. She perched on a beige silk sofa and looked around. Multi-coloured throws were carelessly draped on the sofa backs. Strategically placed lamps dim-lit the room adorned with large paintings. Tall French windows looked out on to a garden. It was a place of wealth and privilege.
A woman entered the room. Dressed in a silken shalwar kameez, her hair cascading in waves, she looked set for a party. As Mehrunisa stood up, she took a seat on the sofa across, crossed her legs, angling her red-soled Louboutins as she appraised her silently. After a period of scrutiny, she gave a quick cheery smile and said, ‘Harry’s daughter, what a surprise, sit, please.’
THE HUNT FOR KOHINOOR BOOK 2 OF THE THRILLER SERIES FEATURING MEHRUNISA Page 10
