As his hand moved up to caress her face Mehrunisa twisted away. Babur Khan’s face hardened as he shot forward and gripped her arms. Mehrunisa struggled to free herself, writhing in the fierce grasp. With both her hands she attempted to push him back and the next instant found her wrists cuffed in his powerful grip. The look in Babur Khan’s eyes had changed again – there was mischief in the deep-set eyes that crinkled at the corner with humour. A part of her brain registered the handsome visage, the craggy face with a fine beard that gave him a rakish look and, as he moved closer, the light brown eyes lit up with desire – it terrified her. She twisted her trapped hands, shoving him. The next instant Babur Khan let go and jerked back.
Astonished, Mehrunisa inspected her immediate surround. But Babur Khan’s eyes were fixed in horrified wonder on her neck. Her hand moved up to where his gaze lay and found the turbah. Something about it had unnerved him. Mehrunisa now clung to it for life, her breath coming in rapid, shallow drafts.
‘Take it OFF!’
The turbah was made of clay from the soil of Karbala, the holiest shrine for Shias – her mother, never overtly religious, had practised her faith nevertheless. Babur Khan, the Sunni Pathan, seemed unnerved by it – did it evoke for him the land that marked the division of Islam? Land that was synonymous with martyrdom, where Shah Imam had given up his life for a cause he believed in? A cause that had survived his killing and beheading? Had the turbah smacked him with the gulf between a Shiite Mehrunisa and his Sunni self?
‘You’ll have to take it off Mehrunisa,’ he said, his voice steady now. As he had demonstrated earlier, he was quick to regain his composure.
‘No. It belongs to my mother.’
His jaw muscles clenched such that his cheeks hollowed out. Babur Khan raised his arm in fury and smote. The vase of blue glass beside the lamp crashed to the rock floor and shattered, its clatter shrill in the quiet air. Next he was striding out of the cave.
The raised arm, the sudden crash – they had unnerved her. She had to steady herself and think quickly. The conversation was surreal. Babur Khan’s proposition was something out of a Grimm Brothers tale, the invitation to spend her days in a subterranean cave like Thumbelina married to the mole. She glanced around her – the rock walls were crowding upon her. No, no – the cave bearing down on her right now was very real. The idea was fantastic but her captor had meant it. He was unhinged, no doubt. She couldn’t live here but she didn’t want to die either! As a mixture of fear and loathing gripped her, she started to shiver. She gagged, doubled over and sputtered air.
She hadn’t eaten in ages, which was making her weak and hallucinatory. Think Mehrunisa! she urged herself. Shards of blue glass lay on the floor. The vase had come from Herat in all likelihood, the city known for its handmade blue glass. Why blue? Did the influence come from adjoining Iran where blue-domed mosques were common, a legacy of the Safavids? Mehrunisa reached for a largish chunk and gripped it. Her ears pricked.
Hurried footsteps were approaching. Rough, chunky, the shard was shaped like a thin triangle with a long jagged edge. A shadow was looming at the entrance. She ran a finger along the edge, and sprouted a drop of blood. A form filled the doorway. Stashing the shard beneath her quilt she sucked on the cut finger. A boy bounded in, eyes lowered, shoulders hunched, a plate of food in his hands. Mehrunisa’s hand clasped the turbah.
Depositing the plate on the far edge of her cot, the boy hunkered down and began to gather the glass shards in his outstretched kameez. When he was done he hurried out the same way he had arrived. A guttural voice, then a tall form blocked the doorway with its bulk. The man had his back to her but the gun slung on one shoulder was visible. As was a belt of bullets he had hung which formed a menacing garland at entry.
Mehrunisa clutched her kara – fear was okay, she’d never seen a weapon this big this close. Yet, her mind sized that silhouetted gun against the shard of blue glass beside her, plunging her heart into a free fall. Once again Mehrunisa was that young girl who had pleaded for her father’s return, first thought in the morning, last prayer at night, with ceaseless beseeching through the day…
Please Papa, come back!
Adezai, Pakistan
Wednesday 4:56 p.m.
Harry focused his mind on the detailed map of the terrain that he’d carried with him, consulting Malik as he pored over what the US had described as the most dangerous place on earth.
By topography alone it was one of the most rugged fighting spots for regular warfare. Direct fighting was compounded by a ferocious enemy who was able to ambush and then disappear down goat paths or melt away into warrens of mud-hut villages. The region’s desolate plateaus, caves and roadless basins provided an ideal battlefield for guerrilla fighters like the Taliban.
It was late in the afternoon and still no sign of a response. Harry had sipped some tea in the room where Malik had set him up. Then he forced himself to get some rest. Even if no information was forthcoming he would have to set out after midnight to attempt the impossible.
Behind his shuttered eyes Harry saw Mehr, the young girl who had grown up while his mind deceived him. She had travelled with him to Kashmir, Maadar preferring to visit her family in Isfahan. They had skied in Gulmarg. Mehr, of course, was a great skier, having taken her first ski lesson on the Italian Alps when she was five. She had a natural facility for the sport. Did she ski still? He tried to imagine her on a ski slope. With a start Harry realized that he could not really see Mehrunisa. Instead he saw his wife.
He opened his eyes wide and lay staring at the pista green ceiling. He had seen his grown-up daughter after a hiatus of seventeen years, for barely ten minutes, and all he remembered was the realization that she looked like a younger version of her mother. Harry tried to remember Mehrunisa as he had seen her that afternoon, adding the details he recalled to aid his reconstruction: the turquoise pashmina wrapped around her, the quiver in her voice as she remarked on his Astaire, the grey-green eyes, remote yet troubled–
A knock at the door and Malik stepped inside. ‘We might have something.’
Bhakra Dam, India
Wednesday 6:02 p.m.
As he prowled the perimeter of the dam, R.P. Singh had the same conversation with himself over and over: if you were a Maoist how would you hide from the police? How did a Naxal stay within the perimeter of police scan yet not announce his presence? How did Naxals simultaneously terrify the tribals and not acquire a bad name?
Because Naxals wore police uniforms.
Singh’s eyes casually roamed over the security personnel stretched in all directions. If you were a jihadi looking to mount the greatest terror attack, what better place to hide than in full view? One or more had to have embedded themselves in the dam’s security detail, but there was no time to go over the specifics of each policeman deployed at the dam.
Which was why Singh had chosen to patrol this area – he had a hawk eye for spotting quarry, and equally fluid moves. What he needed though was ten more of himself at duty with him right now!
Adezai, Pakistan
Wednesday 5:36 p.m.
In Abdus Malik’s living room, a young man stood awkwardly in the centre. Malik’s thickset commander prompted him to repeat what he had divulged earlier. The young man belonged to a village in the neighbouring Orakzai Agency and was clearly out of his depth in the mayor’s home.
Harry addressed him in Pashto, enquiring his name.
Aarif was a boy really, thirteen or fourteen years of age. He was blessed with the height of a giraffe which gave him the look of a gangly young man. Harry persisted in conversing with him in Pashto, trying to ease the boy who held some vital clue to Mehr’s whereabouts.
Hesitantly, Aarif started to talk. He had a colt’s manner of not making eye contact as he spoke. Concentrating on the feet of the men who encircled him, he explained how he was playing in a hilly ravine on the edge of Adezai the day b
efore. Apparently, it was a regular spot for the group of ragamuffin boys: sufficiently removed from their village yet accessible. It was a game of soccer. When the ball was kicked high, it escaped the ravine and rolled off. The boy went in search of it despite heading into what was forbidden land. The territory had of late seen some incursions by the Taliban. In fact, one of the boys had narrated seeing a couple of Talib snoring in one of the caves, cradling their weapons, when he had gone in search of a goat once. They’d sent him away but kept the goat.
Anyway, Aarif wasn’t supposed to be playing soccer at that time. He was herding the family goats when he got tempted. A short game of soccer later he rounded up the goats and headed home. However, his father thrashed him soundly because a couple of goats were missing. When Aarif confessed that he was playing on the job he was commanded to bring the goats back. The only problem: it was midnight and a light snow was falling. His mother pleaded but his father held firm and sent him packing with a Pashto proverb: If retching is your destiny, grit your teeth!
With his heart thudding loud enough for the Taliban to hear, Aarif was scrambling among the scraggy bushes, his eyes alert. He had made it to the bottom of the ravine when he heard the roar of a jeep. Quickly he hid behind a boulder, not daring to breathe. A jeep pulled up, raising a cloud of ice and snow. Despite himself, he peeped. Through the flurry he saw a woman being bundled out of the jeep. She was made to climb up the hills and disappeared around a bend. Aarif surmised the woman was not from the area. She wore no burqa.
‘What was she dressed in?’ Harry barked.
‘Jeans,’ the boy answered. ‘And she had wrapped herself in a shawl.’
‘Colour of the shawl?’
‘Fayroz.’
Fayroz. Turquoise. Harry shut his eyes. The shawl that Mehrunisa was wearing belonged to her mother, his wife.
Bhakra Dam, India
Wednesday 7 p.m.
The control room set up to his satisfaction, Jag Mishra retreated for his evening meditation. A daily routine, it helped him to connect with his morning recitation of the Bhagavad Gita. The prayers were composed two millennia back by nomads in the Punjab. At a time when the west was wilderness. It was an ancient civilization that had continued uninterrupted for years. And Mishra had no intention of seeing it disappear any time soon.
As he said the shlokas that were recited 2000 years back, Mishra was tapping into the prayers and blessings of his ancestors. In parallel, he was streamlining intelligence gathered during the day.
His CIA counterpart had called and apologized for the mole. He claimed no knowledge of it, blaming Saby’s recruitment on another agent. Mishra knew why he was grovelling. He wanted to know what the Kohinoor had revealed. What did the scrolls hold, especially with regard to the US? Mishra had played it cool, refusing to disclose his hand. Of course, he had no idea what the second scroll had said. R.P. Singh had informed him that once Mehrunisa ascertained that only one scroll was pertinent to the Bhakra Dam, she didn’t bother with deciphering the second.
Saby was an undercover agent for the Americans. He reported directly to a General in charge of Special Ops out of Bagram. Babur Khan was based in Bagram, before he went AWOL. Clearly the General’s intel was compromised. Because Babur Khan was getting all the intel that Saby was feeding the General. A mole in the General’s unit. Ha! Mishra sniggered – welcome to the world of spying.
Having sorted that lead, Mishra concentrated on his recitation of the Gayatri mantra. The chants chronicled in the Rig Veda were the fount that connected him with the ancient civilization and culture of India, what it represented and stood for. He would do all in his power to preserve that. Which was why he had played the gamble on Mehrunisa. If his gamble faltered and Harry couldn’t rescue his daughter, or worse, perished in the act, it would be another cross on his shoulder. Mishra would never ever forgive himself for that act of treason against his oldest friend. But Mishra’s shoulders were heavy with the skeletons he had been lugging since he started spying for his motherland. They made sense as long as India was safe.
Chanting softly, Mishra invoked his gods. Harry was out there in the dangerous boondocks, trying to rescue his only child. And he, Mishra, was in Bhakra, trying to prevent the dam from drowning out half the nation.
They could do with divine help.
AfPak Border
Wednesday 9 p.m.
The tandoori roti was chewy and thick. Mehrunisa bit into it gratefully. Lack of food in her stomach was adding to the feeling of stupor – getting some energy into her limbs was crucial. Accompanying the rotis was a version of scrambled eggs and some curry. Bland but fresh; she wolfed down the food.
However, as she tried to plan her escape she found herself struggling with increased torpor. Then the sickening realization: the food must have been laced with some sleep-inducing powder! Mehrunisa slumped against the mattress again.
She waded through waves, clawing her way through syrupy water that tugged at her ankles. Ahead stood Venus on a seashell, draping her nakedness in long auburn tresses. Venus was close to shore. Mehrunisa had to reach her, and she’d be fine. But her hands were stuck, tied behind her back. And the water, it was weighing her down, down, down.
Then, a man approached Venus and grabbed her tresses. As he tried to pull her out of the painting, another man – in the black robes of a friar – urged him on. The painting was pagan, the friar thundered, it was to be destroyed! Burnt in public as a lesson to others! Mehrunisa gasped, the friar turned to her. Hazel eyes, hooked nose – he was Babur Khan!
He strode in her direction, his sibilant voice washing over her. Paintings are immoral Mehrunisa. They have no place in Islam. Why did you study art? You will have to pay the price now.
Mehrunisa tried to flee. She spun on her toes but the thick water trapped her. The momentum of her movement threw her back. Mehrunisa fell into the sludge. Her tied hands were pinned beneath her. The water pulled her down and blanketed her face.
Adezai, Pakistan
Thursday 12:12 a.m.
Abdus Malik, with his commander, ferreted out the exact location of the boy’s sighting and Harry traced it on the detailed map. Then he plugged the coordinates into a digital map and zoomed in. One feature of the terrain was instantly clear: it was pockmarked with more caves than onions in a vegetable market. And the Taliban were rats. They used caves to dwell, to take cover after an ambush, to store ammunition, even hostages. And Mehrunisa, according to Aarif the herder, was captive in one such cave.
As Harry pored over the terrain, he thought through his game plan. The temperature had dipped to ten degrees below zero. The fierce wind of the early morning now mixed with sleet. Snow lay on the plains, the ground treacherous. Snowfall did not bother him but the inclement weather would force the jihadis into their caves for shelter. Which meant they would have to be drawn out for battle.
The Snow Leopard had spent a lifetime tracking the enemy amongst some of the highest peaks of the world. Knowledge of the terrain was vital – in that respect Harry would match the militants.
In his three-decade career Harry had been in and out of Afghanistan and Pakistan over a hundred times. He had done it on foot, on horseback, by car, and flight and through the four seasons. He had journeyed through the Khyber Pass, with its faded insignia of long-gone British regiments painted on the rocks. He had travelled by jeep deep into the Hindu Kush, while the Soviets were there, and after they left. He had sipped in the teahouses of tiny isolated villages in the Hindu Kush that were cut off from their neighbours by rushing rivers in spring and heavy snowfall in winter. Through Afghanistan’s Anjuman Pass, northeast of Kabul, he had journeyed into the Panjshir Valley in a blizzard when even horses found it difficult to find their footing in the deep snow. Harry had done it in the month of January as part of his self-developed training manual.
When Harry was first informed his field of operation would be the AfPak regio
n, he was advised to read up all he could on the region’s history. Then he was to go out and spend time in the field. That way he would realize for himself: in the tribal Pakhtoon region, the past was the present.
Harry’s first station was Peshawar. He spent his time devouring books and memoirs in the dusty library of the Peshawar Club in the erstwhile British cantonment area. In a phrase coined by Captain Arthur Connolly of the East India Company before he was beheaded in Bokhara for spying in 1842, a ‘Great Game’ was played between Tsarist Russia and Victorian England for supremacy in Central Asia. At stake was the security of India, key to the wealth of the British Empire. When play began early in the 19th century, the frontiers of the two imperial powers lay two thousand miles apart, across vast deserts and almost impassable mountain ranges; by the end, only twenty miles separated the two rivals.
After he had read all he could lay his hands on, Harry went into the field and worked with KHAD operatives on the quiet while he travelled around the region sourcing antiques for his business as an antique dealer. He saw the Soviets depart, the Taliban arrive, and now it was the US-led NATO forces. The Great Game was still on, its principal players mindless of the simple instruct: in this region the past was the present. US administration was rolling out the same inkspot strategy of the ex-Soviet President Gorbachev – some things never changed. The Afghans had beaten the Russians, and before them the British Empire. Harry understood the language of the Afghan guerrilla – he spoke it too.
On his first flight from Pakistan to India in winter, he had realized that the towering white clouds on the northern horizon were actually the massif of the huge snow-covered mountains of Afghanistan. It was a lesson well-learned. Harry did not doubt his ability to manoeuvre the snowy plains of the Orakzai landscape. His concern was for the Lashkar fighters of Abdus Malik. The plummeting temperature and stinging sleet made conditions brutal for launching an offensive.
THE HUNT FOR KOHINOOR BOOK 2 OF THE THRILLER SERIES FEATURING MEHRUNISA Page 25
