That winter of ‘71, as fighter planes sounded overhead and black paper was pasted on windows, Harry participated in the action through the Lt. General’s war room set up in his study. Here the old warhorse discussed operations, devised strategy, spoke discreetly to officers in the army and made forecasts. Much as he predicted, the war ended in thirteen days. People sighed with relief and returned home. Harry meanwhile had found his calling. He wanted to be in the thick of action and he wanted to guide his country to security, much like the Lt. General. And history, yes, would be his guide as he surged forward.
Which was not aberrant. Growing up in a border town whose very air was suffused with stories of loss, history was Harry’s legacy. Partition had seen the Muslim majority region get apportioned to India – something to do with a large military arsenal that should not fall into Pakistan’s hands. The kafila that trudged across the newly-created Indo-Pak border, invisible yet defining, lurched across Ferozepur – forever marked thereafter as a border town.
The encounter with the Lt. General had only clarified things. Harry was to witness the fabric of the nation threatened repeatedly – by wars, by Sikh separatists, by jihadis. Like the Lt. General, Harry believed it was his duty to keep India secular and secure. Only, he’d accomplish it as a spy.
And early on in his vocation Harry worked out his spin on the maxim: Keep your friends close, your enemies closer. Tunnelling deep into the enemy’s lair was the only way to know him, from inside out. Consequently, Harry knew the swathe of land from the southern edge of central Asia to the soaring peaks of northern India like a mother knows her child’s face.
En route to Islamabad, Pakistan
Tuesday 3:22 a.m.
Inside the rattling Pakeezah Coach, R.P. Singh settled against the seat – the driver had warned there was speculation that Lowari Pass might close due to snow, in which case they’d have to take the longer route across Shandur Top to Gilgit. The dire prediction had come true. And led to the build-up of a long line of trucks. He checked his phone again – no signal – his thoughts on Mehrunisa.
He had first met her when he was shunted to the CBI in Delhi to cool his heels. An anti-Naxal operation had gone wrong, according to the political bosses – Singh though was happy he had scored another ‘Hit’ – and he was banished for six months. In a proverbial jump from the frying pan to the fire he found himself assigned to a case that involved a tangled web of conspiracy around the Taj Mahal, the world’s foremost monument to love. Which, in hindsight, was a good omen.
For afterwards he realized, much to his bemusement, that he had fallen in love. Mehrunisa, the Mughal scholar-cum-restorer, who was the first to raise alarm on the intrigue surrounding the Taj, was the one he teamed up with as they raced against time to decipher clues that led to the conspirator. Sifting through the multiple strands of the conspiracy, Singh, in turn, got entangled. For the first time in his life Rana Pratap Singh, whose name figured on the hit lists of several militant organizations, found himself putty in the hands of another. Nothing a dose of flirtation wouldn’t fix, he decided, and dived into dating. It didn’t help, of course.
He was giddy with love. Disgusted at his newly lovelorn self, he plunged himself into the mosquito-infested jungles where he chased Maoists for a living. And Mehrunisa, thankfully, was not free to return his love – her whole self wrapped up in the mysterious absence of her father. She reciprocated his feelings, and yet, held back. That realization and the distance he put between them, however, did nothing to change how he felt. Loath to be Majnu, he resigned himself to unrequited love and clamped a lid on the matter.
Now, according to Pradhan, Indian intelligence was hotfooting to avert a prospective terror attack in a plan that revolved around one Snow Leopard. If Mehrunisa’s father had indeed surfaced after decades, Singh wanted to be around. To do what exactly, he didn’t quite know, but since he had started his dash in her direction, a phrase had been with him. It came from a novel he’d read as part of his ICSE board exams, A Tale of Two Cities, in which two men, a French aristocrat Charles and a British barrister Sydney, love the same woman. Lucy marries Charles, but ultimately, it is Sydney who saves them both as he keeps his promise to give his life to save a life Lucy loves.
When the class of fifteen-year-old boys first encountered that Dickensian saga of love and loss it had been unanimous in its verdict: Tosh! What good was quiet heroism when you lost the woman, eh?
Today, though, the phrase had popped out of nowhere, with startling lucidity.
I would give my life for a life you love.
En route to Murree, Pakistan
Tuesday 6:06 a.m.
The terrain had changed, the plains of Punjab giving way to gently rolling Margalla hills as they headed eastwards to Murree. The sky was dull with grey dawn light.
As the Land Cruiser throbbed under his hand and roared up a hill, Raghav was only mildly aware of the pleasure of driving a powerful vehicle that responds superbly to the slightest pressure. At any other time he would have savoured the powerful four-wheel drive as it zipped from Lahore in the dark, swallowing miles. However, his mind was on the mission as he scanned the area ahead. The choice of a Toyota 100 series Land Cruiser was not largesse on the part of the Director, Pakistan Desk – Jag Mishra was leaving nothing to chance. The jeep had built its reputation in the Australian outback, a tough environment both in terms of temperature and terrain, and Mishra had a mission to fulfil.
Raghav looked at Mehrunisa seated in the passenger seat, her legs drawn up, arms cradling them as she looked ahead. Not for the first time he wondered what she was thinking. In less than twenty-four hours her life had altered more dramatically than that of any protagonist in a Bollywood movie. An art historian in the badlands of Pakistan hunting for clues to save her father and nation – just thinking it made Raghav’s mind go WTF?
When Raghav had first encountered Mehrunisa she was crouched over a bloody corpse in the mausoleum of the Taj Mahal, a suspect in the murder of the monument’s supervisor. He had rounded her up for questioning. It was to be the beginning of an adventure that would take them from the marble corridors of Taj to the surrounding warrens of Agra to the labyrinth of Delhi’s politics and reveal a conspiracy that could rent the secular fabric of the country. The woman who looked as if she had stepped right out of a Mughal miniature had, with her ingenuity and courage, helped police avert the biggest disaster of modern India. In that time he had got to know her as someone who could speak five-six languages, talk passionately about Italian Renaissance and Mughal history, drink red wine with exotic cheese, and take diligent care of an elderly uncle. She was the most beautiful woman Raghav had ever seen, and yet she chose to immerse herself in ancient artefacts and the past. Her intelligence and fierce independence had won his respect and they had settled into an easy friendship. But Mehrunisa was a private person and she let her guard down very seldom. Even after the astounding revelations of the last day, she was keeping her iron demeanour. Only at times he saw a chink, as now. With a wisp of hair on one cheek, chin resting on her raised knees, she reminded Raghav of a little lost girl.
He felt a pang and gritted his jaw – for both their sakes he hoped Jag Mishra knew what he was doing. An abrupt command from Mehrunisa startled him.
‘STOP!’
As he braked and swerved to the kerb Mehrunisa was already scrambling out of the jeep. Raghav shouted an imprecation, unbuckled himself and bound after her, right hand resting on the gun as he scanned the surround.
Traffic on the road was minimal, life barely stirring. Ahead, on the side of the road, a vendor had opened his cart for business. Corns were lined in a row, some with black bobs indicating they were freshly roasted. Embers glowed in a small coal hearth. Mehrunisa reached for a plump cob and placed it on the coal. The man began fanning the embers.
‘Bhutta. Want one?’ Mehrunisa asked Raghav.
He clucked his annoyance as he c
ast another look around. ‘That was dangerous,’ he muttered.
She shrugged. ‘Hunger pangs.’
Raghav remembered she had not eaten at dinner when they stopped at the dhaba; she’d just had a glass of tea. The corn was well-roasted and Mehrunisa was instructing the vendor on the dressing. He dabbed a slice of lime on a plate of garam masala, rubbed it on top of the cob and offered it on a sheaf of husk. Mehrunisa dug out of her pocket some Pakistani rupee notes Mishra had provided and handed them to the vendor. Not waiting for change, she turned on her heels towards the Cruiser. The bhutta wala was surprised with the largesse and watched them with interest as they retreated.
When they were inside the vehicle Raghav spoke, his moustache bristling. ‘NEVER do anything that draws attention to you. You left such a large tip the man will remember us.’
It was a few mouthfuls before she spoke. Red chilli powder stained the corner of her mouth as she looked at Raghav, her eyes green with turmoil. ‘Considering we almost vaporized a few hours back, how bad is that?’
Murree, Pakistan
Tuesday 6:56 a.m.
On the outskirts of Murree, at Mohra Shareef, stood the shrine of the pir, a Sufi saint.
Snow sat in heavy covers atop the curved roof of the shrine and the rooftops of outlying buildings. The temperature was close to freezing. The thick mist that had hovered over the Cruiser on the journey up wafted over the capacious grounds of the isolated monastery like freshly released smoke. With the engine dead the sudden stillness of their surroundings came almost as a shock. Mehrunisa rolled her shoulders as she eased herself out of the passenger seat and stepped out. The ground was awash in a thick layer of snow.
Raghav looked at her, ‘Shall we?’
The cold air stung her nostrils as they walked up to the monastery. From her backpack she removed the jacket Mishra had provided – his burqa was in the debris at the begum’s home. At the gated entrance a guard wrapped in a thick quilt peered at them. More guards could be sighted in an outhouse beyond.
‘We are here to meet the Sajjada Nasheen,’ Mehrunisa said.
‘Evidently. You wouldn’t be here seeking Shahid Afridi,’ the guard said with wry humour.
His head had begun to swing in refusal when Mehrunisa added, ‘We’ve driven up all the way in the night through snow – it is critical.’
He clucked. ‘Everyone who comes to the pir has something critical to ask for. Harder the journey, higher the suffering, greater the desire for fulfilment. What are you seeking, lady? A son?’
Mehrunisa’s glacial mask slid into place, the narrowed pupils exaggerating the greyness of the eyes. ‘A daughter actually, sister to the five sons I have already.’
Realizing the guard was sufficiently bemused, she continued in an imperious voice, ‘Can you convey a message to him?’
The guard pointed to his watch indicating the early hour.
‘There was a suicide bomb attack at the Lahore home of the Nasheen’s sister last night.’ She lowered her voice, ‘I was there but managed to escape. I have an urgent message to convey.’
He made them wait in his cubicle by the gate. After ten minutes he returned and led them inside the monastery to a living room. After flicking on the light, he fired up a pot-bellied wood-burning stove and asked them to wait. Then he stood by the door, hands folded over his belly.
The room was decorated in an ornate style that bordered on kitschy: velvet sofas with embroidered cushions, pistachio-green walls and walnut tables with ornate legs. A tomato-red carpet with a golden floral pattern covered the floor. A man walked into the room, rotund with the enormous girth of one who spent a lot of time sitting. A shawl was draped on his shoulders and he had a chubby, childlike face. As they made to rise he waved to them to keep sitting. Then he sat heavily on the sofa opposite them and watched them silently with his small eyes. After several minutes of scrutiny, he spoke, ‘You have a message?’
His lilting voice was at odds with his face.
Mehrunisa was off the block as she proceeded to explain how she had met Begum Ameena, the bomb blast and the begum’s missive. She avoided any mention of her connection with Indian intelligence.
‘Were you followed?’ asked the Sajjada Nasheen quietly.
‘No,’ Raghav replied.
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Because we make it our business to be sure.’
‘And what business would that be?’
When Raghav stayed quiet, Mehrunisa interjected, ‘Please. It is critical that we meet with Aziz Mirza as soon as possible.’
The next minute a servant stepped into the room with a tray laden with tea. Everyone stayed quiet while he served. On his departure, the Nasheen waved a hand to the guard who stepped outside and closed the door behind him.
‘Ameena called me in the night. I was expecting you. But I need to be sure that you were not followed. You see, Aziz has escaped one attempt on his life already. The reason he is hiding is because he expects another attack, and another, until he is eliminated. His enemies are not in a forgiving mood.’ As Mehrunisa made to interject, he raised his hand for silence. ‘Your mission is critical, otherwise Ameena would not have sent you. But Aziz is under my protection and I am responsible for him. So, let’s get some facts out of the way. Ameena hasn’t told me but I’m not a fool. This man here,’ he pointed to Raghav, ‘is obviously from the Indian intelligence. So, if he says that you were not followed, I can believe him. But you, young lady, you look to me like a novice. What exactly is your role in this entire operation?’
The question was justified. She had to gain the man’s confidence, get him on her side. ‘Let me begin my introducing myself. I am Mehrunisa, and this here is my friend Raghav.’
She noticed Nasheen’s eyes flicker with interest. ‘Mehrunisa,’ he said softly.
‘My mother gave me the name. She was Persian, a Shia.’ Mehrunisa paused to let the religious denomination sink in.
‘And your father,’ he asked, clearly intrigued.
‘My father is Indian, a Sikh.’
‘And you Mehrunisa. What are you?’
‘I am a product of my parents. They are my murshid.’
Her use of ‘murshid’ was deliberate. The different faiths of both parents, neither of them didactic, had osmosed into her. A murshid in Sufi faith was a spiritual guide. And the Sajjada Nasheen was the head of a monastery dedicated to a revered saint of Sufi faith, increasingly threatened by the Arab-ised Wahabbi Islam of the jihadis.
‘An amalgam, hunh? Then do you find yourself at odds with the world, Mehrunisa?’
‘At times, yes. Fundamentalists are looking to define it in black and white, using faith to grab power.’ Mehrunisa leaned forward, holding the Nasheen’s attention. ‘But Tasawwuf is a spiritual journey.’
The Sajjada Nasheen regarded her frankly. Then he waved his hand at the tea on the table. ‘It is cold and tea must be had hot.’ He helped himself to a teacup and proceeded to sip, his eyes half-closed as if in meditation. Mehrunisa and Raghav followed course though she felt she would rather avail of a toilet first.
‘The faith is under attack from those who would define it with their own narrow vision, with bombs and guns. But the meek do not inherit the earth. The righteous do. And the righteous must stand their ground.’ He looked at Raghav, then Mehrunisa, studying them both. ‘This mission poses danger to your lives, yet you are pursuing it. Why?’
Quietly Mehrunisa said, ‘There are more lives at stake.’
‘And we are doing our duty,’ Raghav added.
‘The good warriors!’ The Nasheen inclined his head slightly. ‘Well said. Eventually, there is one principle, and one principle alone on which the world is hinged: things will work out the way they should, provided we do what we should.’
He nodded. ‘Aziz is in the mountains in a safe sanctuary. You know how to climb a mountain
, yes? One of my men will escort you to a point from where you’ll have to make it on your own. I trust very few with information on his whereabouts. This trustworthy fellow takes some supplies frequently.’ He paused, his eyes resting on Mehrunisa, ‘You see, Aziz has gone underground.’
Kabul International Airport, Afghanistan
Tuesday 8:10 a.m.
Sergeant Travis Argento, dressed in civvy clothes, was waiting to catch the Pakistan International Airlines flight to Lahore. He wore a charcoal-coloured business suit, ill-fitted over his modest shoulders. His business card stated that he worked for Aqua Raven as a security consultant and his passport showed several exit stamps from Pakistan, even though it would be the first time the US sergeant would set foot in the country. However, since Aqua Raven was involved in the covert business of protecting US interests in the AfPak region, procuring a new passport was par for the course.
A delay in the flight was announced and Argento decided to use the time to pore over the map he’d pulled out of his briefcase. Lahore was the first port of call – a phone call would alert him to further course of action, as and when new information was available.
The mission was notable for its lack of a blueprint and Argento had the distinct feeling that General McCormick would design that plan in real time. Which would be the reason why the General had picked him in the first place. The Sergeant’s one strength was that he was immune to panic – which made him an intuitive improviser. As he casually surveyed the lounge he did not miss the long beard studying him intently from two rows across. Again.
Dressed like a regular Afghan in shalwar kameez, bomber jacket and turban, he blended in the milieu. Nobody else would have noticed but Argento could discern the man’s interest in him. Like any Special Operations officer, he was trained in surveillance. Since entering the airport he had switched location several times – browsing at a bookstore, hanging out near a coffee dispenser, waiting in the lounge – and at each he’d casually established a perimeter, assessed it for entry and exit, for potential weapons of attack as he studied the different people within the encompassed area. At each area of scrutiny, Long Beard had shown up.
THE HUNT FOR KOHINOOR BOOK 2 OF THE THRILLER SERIES FEATURING MEHRUNISA Page 12
