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

by Manreet Sodhi Someshwar

  She was strong. She would survive and fight and come through. She would save her father and herself. Nishchay kar apni jeet karo. She could do it. She was strong. The snowy white of her surrounding dissolved to the white marble of a pristine white gurudwara. A girl and her father emerged from its portal. The father had promised a story and they sat in the lush garden amidst which the Sikh temple was situated. She tucked into her pershad and listened how the British had built the Saragarhi Memorial Gurudwara to commemorate the twenty-one Sikhs who held off a ten thousand-strong Pathan army.

  But how do twenty-one men fight ten thousand?

  They will it. Their motto: nishchay kar apni jeet karo. Determine to win.

  In her mind flashed that last image of her father: Harinder Singh Khosa, nattily attired, a silk kerchief in an Astaire fold in his breast pocket, his wrists and ankles shackled to the chair.

  Mehrunisa knew what was at stake.

  Lahore-Islamabad GT Road, Pakistan,

  Tuesday 5 p.m.

  They had passed Islamabad, en route to Lahore, when traffic started to pile up. They had done good time thus far, the Sajjada Nasheen’s man proving himself an aspiring Formula One driver as he zipped down GT Road, heedless of the snow and ice slowing other vehicles down. His decision to avoid the motorway M2 had seemed reasonable until now – eighty kilometres from Lahore, approaching the city of Gujranwala, vehicles had slowed to a crawl. The driver came to a halt and his partner looked at Mehrunisa and said something. The raucous phut phut of a farm trolley that had pulled up beside them drowned his voice and he indicated he would go check. Terrible timing for a traffic jam, she had no time to lose.

  To her right a hoarding announced ‘Welcome to the City of Wrestlers’. They were now in the midst of idling vehicles and flitting men as the cause of the congestion was investigated. She had begun to knead her palms when the bodyguard returned and conversed with the driver. Mehrunisa leaned forward to enquire.

  ‘Protest,’ was the laconic reply as the man settled into his seat and cradled his gun. ‘Will take some hours before they disperse.’

  Trying not to show her exasperation, Mehrunisa pressed him for details. In reply he addressed the windshield.

  Apparently, US soldiers in Afghanistan had burned a copy of the holy Quran during an operation against Taliban rebels. As news percolated through the country, demonstrations had erupted in the eastern city of Jalalabad and southern Kandahar. ‘Now it is the turn of Pakistanis to show their anger.’

  Mehrunisa wondered whether he was being ironical but the man was looking straight ahead, having settled down for the hiatus on the road. Perhaps there was another way to get out of the traffic jam? Abruptly she reached for the burqa the begum had gifted her and thrust it over her head. Swinging open the door of the vehicle, she stepped out. The burqa folds fell around her like a tent. Meanwhile, the driver, sighting Mehrunisa on the road, elbowed his partner to follow her. As she zigzagged her way through the mass of parked vehicles she sighted him from the corner of her eye. He was following her at a leisurely pace, gun slung over his shoulder – it was faintly reassuring. Further ahead appeared to be the focal point of the disruption – a circle of men, several layers thick, eyeing some action at the epicentre.

  Mehrunisa wound her way around the circle. A jeep at the circle’s edge was idling with no one at the wheel. She stood on its footrest. Beyond turbanned heads, shaking fists and upraised arms was a bonfire into which were being flung red and blue paper flags. An effigy was already burning. Death to America! Death to Jews and Christians! The effigy was likely that of the US President. The rising hysteria and mounting numbers indicated the bonfire party would be prolonged, never mind the highway getting choked. Now what? She scanned the horizon.

  Gold’s Gym – the place where world famous wrestlers are built: a billboard with bulging male pectorals painted in rust-red swam into view. She decided to walk along the edge of the road towards the hoarding. The Grand Trunk Road wound its way through the city. Presumably it was a continuation of the same GT Road that started in India and made its way through the northern part of the country into Pakistan at Lahore and terminated at Peshawar. One of South Asia’s oldest and longest major roads, it still accounted for a large flow of traffic. In India, however, at points where GT Road entered a major city, a new road had been constructed in parallel that ran along the city’s periphery. Called a ‘bypass’ road, it served precisely the same purpose, allowing long-distance commuters to avoid the traffic of an en route city. Assuming similar planning in Pakistan, there would be a bypass road close by…

  She walked on the kerb for a half-kilometre before the maze of vehicles ended. Here land sloped downwards and in the distance pine trees stretched along what appeared to be a dirt track. It was no bypass but perhaps it would provide a way out of the snarl? It had no takers, the passengers in the queuing vehicles more keen on the impromptu protest. Hitching up her burqa she made her way down the slope to examine the path. Halfway down she became aware of a footfall. She looked behind, expecting to see her bodyguard. And froze.

  It wasn’t him. A bearded man in shalwar kameez was striding down in her direction. His manner was not reassuring. She started to scramble down the slope, putting distance between them.

  Her tongue flicked out to lick suddenly dry lips. The gun was on her, she felt for it over the folds of her burqa. Should she just throw the darn thing off and reach for the weapon? How could she run in this balloon? She glanced back. The man was staring at her as he kept up his march. Perhaps she should stop panicking. How could the man identify her, covered as she was head-to-toe in a bloated yurt? Only her eyes were visible, that too from behind a mesh window. She should head back and try to lose herself in the crowd.

  Mehrunisa straightened her shoulders, swivelled and started to hurry back up even as he approached. They were now walking towards each other on the edge of GT Road, the distance between them closing. In the background the chants were raucous. No one would notice if she was attacked. Where in hell had the bodyguard vanished? The man stuck his right arm out. Mehrunisa skirted him and quickened her pace. He swivelled abruptly and fell in step with her. Her heart was in her throat.

  ‘For a woman in a burqa, you walk too fast.’ The man spoke quietly, just loud enough for her ears.

  His voice made her jump. That voice. The remark was menacing yet she discerned something familiar. She continued to walk as she thought furiously. The man had made out that she was not a regular Pakistani woman. What would he do now? Who was he? An accomplice of the man who had attacked them in Murree? The attacker himself? Mehrunisa clutched the burqa, retrieved her Glock and broke into a jog as she planned to plunge into the mass of vehicles ahead. She had to lose him. Otherwise, this time, she would shoot him. She clutched the gun tightly in her hand.

  ‘A gun between friends, Mehrunisa?’

  At that she whirled around. She almost bumped into her stalker who was right behind her and was now regarding her evenly. She found herself looking up into black eyes. He pulled off the pakol hat to reveal a bald pate. The beard was what threw her, but her eyes knew what they were looking at. As she gaped in amazement, he said, ‘Looks like I rescued myself just in time.’

  Relief and happiness surged within her as Mehrunisa clapped a hand over her mouth. He took her in his arms and she collapsed against him. After several minutes, she pulled back, threw back the face veil and studied R.P. Singh. ‘Where-wh-how,’ she sputtered. ‘What are you doing here?’

  He smiled and pulled her veil down. ‘Pretend nothing has changed.’ His voice was urgent. He cast a look around before turning to her. ‘Walk with me.’

  They fell in step walking unhurriedly in the direction of the crowd. R.P. Singh told Mehrunisa how he had got news of her arrival in Lahore, heard she was heading for Murree and reached just as the Urs celebration was midway. By the time he made his way through the throng of devotees, Ragha
v had been attacked. Then he had jumped into the fray, fended off the attacker and commanded Mehrunisa to head inside. After that, he lost the jihadi and decided it would be best to follow her as she threaded her way back to Lahore. He decided to trail her, both to keep an eye on her and to watch for the man who was on her track. But when Mehrunisa wandered off GT Road, he decided it was time to reveal himself.

  He surveyed the road as he talked, his shoulders and chest tensed to spring into action. Mehrunisa was puzzled. ‘Why did Pradhan call you? Surely, if Kohinoor is their motive, RAW could have sent some spies to trail Raghav and me. Why go out of their way to seek you in Wakhan when you are not even in their service?’

  R.P. Singh studied Mehrunisa quietly. Around them chants were being strung out like a street crier’s medley. Mehrunisa saw herself in his black irises, a blue tent-like apparition. The exhaustion of the past two days, the dangerous mission and its unexpected ramifications, the discovery of a father she’d presumed dead, the sudden appearance of Pratap – all were colluding to confound her. For she saw the look in those eyes and she understood it perfectly and yet her mind was too numb to respond. Perhaps her perplexed self was evident, for R.P. Singh shrugged. Then he took her by the elbow, ‘We should get out of this place.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Follow me.’ Singh led Mehrunisa to the spot where his vehicle was parked: a motorcycle. ‘It will take us through the dirt track and we can avoid GT Road altogether. A bumpy ride, not unlike our quest.’

  Srinagar, India

  Tuesday 5:30 p.m.

  Harry hovered on the edge of consciousness. He wasn’t awake but his mind was alert. He knew what was coming. And he had to think through what he needed to do to bring Mehr back safely.

  Hannibal took the battle to Rome; Harry would take it to whichever lawless tract his daughter was in.

  It hadn’t been done before Hannibal – which was why the Romans least expected it. Crossing the Alps was the shortest route: the sea was heavily guarded, the Romans having secured coastal land routes. Harry would similarly take the most direct and shortest route – march right to the enemy’s lair. Doing what Rome least expected was Hannibal’s strength.

  What separated Hannibal from Rome: a hundred and twenty miles of snow, ice and rock. Yet Hannibal overcame the obstacle. Terrain could be used to your advantage/disadvantage – it was all a matter of perspective and risk-taking. Miltiades did the same with the battle of Marathon when a small Athenian army managed to defeat the mighty Persian army. Using terrain to advantage, Miltiades forced the Persians to march through a valley, the slopes of which were banked with felled trees, making cavalry impossible. Outmanoeuvre and outwit them, that was the only way.

  When Hannibal reached Rome, his army was depleted and weak. He knew half the Roman army was drawn from alliances with the locals. He decided to test those alliances and draw his warriors from them. Harry had alliances and old friends in the field – men who owed him.

  Out where Mishra had sent his daughter were many Taliban…

  Not one of them had the courage or cunning of Snow Leopard, Harry reminded himself.

  Islamabad-Lahore highway, Pakistan

  Tuesday 5 p.m.

  Mehrunisa was riding pillion behind Pratap as he spurred the motorcycle over the dirt track. Getting rid of the two bodyguards wasn’t easy. They declaimed vigorously of anticipated wrath at their failure to accomplish the Nasheen’s command until Mehrunisa suggested they implicate her. The rush of cold air now hit her face and she was glad to smuggle into Pratap’s back.

  After a tense day and a half, in which she had lost her only ally, to encounter the one person she trusted her life with was uncanny. She hadn’t seen Pratap in what – three months? He dropped in on her whenever in Delhi on work. The frequency of those assignments seemed suspect, yet she never denied herself the seduction of his company. They would go out for dinner, a long leisurely affair, the chemistry mutual, as they talked easily. Initially, she worried he’d want to take it further, but Pratap showed no such inclination and now the struggle was with herself. When he draped a casual arm around her as they walked, all she wanted was to spin around and bury herself into him. And when he disappeared for weeks she wished he would call so she could hear his voice. Well, why don’t you call? the voice within her reared, but Mehrunisa was quick to snuff it.

  She thought of her father. Would Jag Mishra have disclosed the attack to him? But the man RAW called ‘Snow Leopard’ would make it his business to know... Confined and constrained, his worry levels would be stratospheric. Mehrunisa bit her inner cheek. Luck had to be on her side in Lahore.

  From the dirt track they reached the outskirts of the city of Gujranwala. As they passed a milestone indicating forty kilometres to Lahore, R.P. Singh slowed down the motorcycle and came to a halt beside a roadside dhaba. Mehrunisa, lulled to doze, awoke with a start. She blinked at the eatery, checked her watch when Singh said, ‘When did you last eat?’

  Her last meal was the lunch she had nibbled at the RAW office in Srinagar. En route to Murree, Raghav had grabbed a packet of biscuits. And the bhutta. The packed lunch from the begum had remained untouched. Pratap led her by her shoulder to one of the wooden tables set on the empty terrace. A boy was soon at their side to take their order. Pratap ordered aloo parathas and tea and settled back in the plastic chair. He enquired about Raghav.

  Mehrunisa squeezed her eyes and massaged her forehead as she updated him. True, Raghav was injured and Papa was wounded, and dusk was gathering. There was no time to lose, least over munching parathas. She caught Pratap watching her. ‘What?’

  He shrugged nonchalantly, but his eyes caressed her. ‘It’s good to see you Mehrunisa, though the circumstances could do with some improvement.’

  Two steaming teacups appeared on the table, the aroma of cardamom fragrant in the chilly winter air. Pratap slid one across to her. ‘You met your father I believe.’

  Mehrunisa exhaled before sitting up and taking a sip of her tea. ‘I met a legendary spy of the Indian intelligence. Incidentally, he looks just like my father did when I knew him, only greyer.’

  On Pratap’s prompting, she filled him in on the details provided by Jag Mishra and Harry himself. Her voice was laced with bitterness.

  ‘If it is any reassurance, this can’t be easy on him either.’

  The boy reappeared, this time with two steel plates of hot buttery parathas. Mehrunisa’s stomach growled and she gratefully tore off a bite.

  ‘Did you have a premonition,’ Pratap asked, ‘about meeting your father?’

  Mehrunisa lifted one shoulder. ‘Daily nightmares.’ Sometime after they had worked together on solving the Taj conspiracy, Mehrunisa had confided in him about her recurring nightmare where she saw her father’s beheading.

  ‘Well, now they will stop.’

  Mehrunisa glared at him, her eyes narrowed with the effort to control her emotions. ‘They need never have happened in the first place. He had a choice, and he chose to remember his work and forget his family.’

  ‘Or it was the only way his mind knew to keep his family safe.’

  Refusing to be convinced, she pursed her mouth in a contemplation of the horizon.

  ‘The fact that you’re in the field because he’s unable … his guilt must be massive.’

  ‘His temporary inability brought us face to face! Otherwise, the façade would have continued forever.’ Mehrunisa made a wry face. ‘Deception is a spy’s foremost tool.’ She felt something well up inside her, a mix of hurt and anger and bitterness and recrimination. Since Pratap was seated opposite her, acting as Harry’s spokesman, she projected it on him. ‘What made you leave your paradise in Wakhan? Why are you doing this Pratap? And when did you grow a beard?’

  Pratap had finished his meal and was wiping his hands on some stiff paper napkins. ‘Would you like something else to eat?’

  T
he food had helped raise her energy levels, Mehrunisa knew, and the increased sugar was making her antsy. She wanted to lash out at something, holler until her lungs burst, kick the table and send the steel cutlery clattering. Instead she clenched her fists in her lap and pushed the chair back. ‘We should be going.’

  Pratap left money on the plate the boy had deposited with a bill and the customary fennel seeds. Indicating a minute, he hoisted his backpack and went in search of a toilet. He returned swiftly, dressed in his customary trousers and shirt and the bomber jacket. As he straddled the bike he looked at her and asked, ‘Why are you doing this Mehrunisa?’

  ‘It’s personal.’

  He kick-started the motorcycle and it roared to life. She sat behind him, her hands on the passenger grip. Pratap reached for her right hand and brought it forward in a clasp around his waist. He repeated it with her left. Then, turning around, he said, ‘Ditto.’ He dropped the glass visor of the helmet and they roared off.

  Lahore, Pakistan

  Tuesday 6 p.m.

  By the time they reached Lahore it was evening, Mehrunisa had regained her composure, and rush hour had begun. Pratap weaved the motorcycle through choked traffic, Mehrunisa twitched her wrist periodically to slow down time. Through the ride they had kept an eye on the rear-view mirror and stopped on a couple of occasions to assess whether they were being followed.

  ‘Do you think he knows you are travelling to Lahore?’