THE HUNT FOR KOHINOOR BOOK 2 OF THE THRILLER SERIES FEATURING MEHRUNISA (15 page)

‘He was dressed in white,’ Mehrunisa said, ‘a perfect camouflage.’

‘You must have hit him,’ Raghav nodded.

‘I hit the ceiling near the entrance.’ She pointed to a spot at the mouth of the cave that was bereft of its icicle. ‘The bullet sheared off the icicle and it plunged towards the man. I think it hit him in the shoulder.’

Raghav allowed himself a smile as he gave a slight shake of his head. ‘One of those icicles is like a dagger. And falling from that height it must have done some damage. Good shot Mehrunisa.’

Aziz Mirza moaned.

‘You have to get help from the monastery.’

‘I can’t leave you here, it’s not safe.’ Raghav scanned the entrance anxiously.

‘If we don’t get help, he’ll bleed to death.’

Mehrunisa held her gun in front of her, wrists straight, a good solid grip with thumbs locked down, finger on the trigger. It was a copybook execution. She urged Raghav with her chin.

She was strong. She would fight and come through this. She would save her father and herself.

Nishchay kar apni jeet karo.

Srinagar, India

Tuesday 12:22 p.m.

In his office in Srinagar Jag Mishra watched snow
fall
in lazy drifts. In the distance children could be heard shouting in glee as they hurled snowballs at one another. The valley had witnessed a snowfall two days ago and night temperature
had touched minus four degrees Celsius.
The fresh snow would make daytime temperatures subzero. Mishra’s thoughts were not centred on his comfort, though. What occupied him was how the inclement weather was influencing his team. Raghav’s last communication had indicated they were on their way to Murree, the queen of hill stations in Pakistan.

It was fortuitous that Mehrunisa had escaped the bomb blast. She was safe, and she was on track. Luck was on her side. Or a father’s prayers.

Harry was showing remarkable progress in his recovery. In the morning, despite the doctor’s instructions, he had risen from bed and exercised. The doctor pleaded with Mishra to put a stop to the exertion. Mishra, however, did not intervene and watched through the one-way mirror as Harry painfully went through his regimen.

Contrary to the harried doctor’s prognosis, Harry did not crumple at the end of his workout. He ordered a large meal, asked the doctor to sedate him and slept like a log. Mishra knew what Harry was preparing himself for – he had to admit, it was all going to plan.

Now Mishra squared his shoulders as he prepared to break the latest news to him. Such dramatic news would impede recovery in a seriously injured patient. With Harry though, Mishra knew it would have the opposite effect. Besides, this revelation was critical to his game plan.

However, he had to strike the right balance. Plan A was progressing as he’d envisioned; there was still time for Plan B to be activated.

Murree, Pakistan

Tuesday 12:04 p.m.

Raghav scrambled down the snowy hill, pistol in one
hand as his eyes scoured the landscape. A quick recce had yielded no clues to their assailant – no trail of blood on the snow, no clear footprints... He was hurt, probably severely, but that was no guarantee he wasn’t lurking around to attack again. Leaving Mehrunisa in the cave with Aziz Mirza was decidedly unsafe but he had no option. Besides, she had demonstrated her capacity for self-defence, albeit in a less professional form than desired. But for a person who spent time poring over antiques, she was rather intrepid. That was one quality Raghav had witnessed when he had worked with her on the Taj conspiracy – perhaps it came from her father?

A snowflake settled on Raghav’s nose. He refused to be distracted by it, continuing his silent vigil as he stalked downhill, his ears alert for sounds that the fresh snowfall would muffle, his eyes scanning the ground for footprints that would soon be obscured.

From the clearing he rounded the bend into the thicket that would lead him on the narrow trail to the monastery. He was hoping to get a few armed men back to the cave within an hour. Beyond that could get dangerous – their attacker was clearly a determined man who would know how to tend to a wound. He halted.

Ahead, fifty metres or so, he had sighted movement. A branch had sprung back, as if from contact, and was vibrating lightly. Quietly, he slipped behind a pine tree, levelled his gun and watched.

Forward motion pulsed through the bordering growth as a path was forged through it. Whoever it was, he was keeping himself hidden from plain view. He was walking parallel to the dirt track, as he made his way through the shrubbery. A white streak. Raghav’s hand trailed it, the gun moving along slowly. The trail approached a clearing. With the break in the thicket a man came into view. Dressed in a white shalwar kameez and a white parka, a bearded face, head covered in a pakol – a cap popular in Afghanistan. The man cast a hurried look around before he stepped onto the trail. Visible beneath his open jacket was a brown leather holster.

‘Drop your weapon!’ Raghav had stepped out quickly, his gun held upfront.

The man froze. They stood there studying each other. A hesitant shrug before he held up his palms. ‘Hold it!’ The weapon was on his body. Raghav had to disable him. He walked towards him. The man’s eyes started to oscillate as they scanned the expanse behind Raghav. In the next instant Raghav had lunged at the man, brought him to the ground and had a pistol cocked at his temple. A collective gasp sounded.

In front of them were ranged four people, two men, a woman and a child, all dressed in versions of white clothing. They had evidently stepped out of the thicket and stood watching in disbelief. The woman was the first to recover. Gathering her voluminous white chador around her she hollered, ‘What are you doing to my husband?’

Raghav relaxed his grip and the man surfaced from underneath him. He looked at him askance, aware of the pistol pointed at him but visibly agitated.

A mistake. Raghav exhaled, stood up and pocketed his pistol. The man followed, brushing the snow off his sleeve. The group had now closed in on him. Attempting a bravado he did not feel Raghav asked, ‘You are?’

‘Here for the Urs,’ the woman barked at him. She scowled. ‘Are you security?’

Urs.
Urs
. As in death ceremony of a Sufi saint. So that was why they were dressed in white: they were pilgrims to the celebration in the shrine of Mohra Sharif. Raghav patted down his jacket and in an officious tone said, ‘Yes, security. Sorry about the mix-up. What were you doing here?’

‘We were on our way to the shrine when you wrestled me down.’ The man was urging the group to start moving. His jacket parted to reveal the brown leather at his hip – it was not a holster but a travel pouch.

Raghav nodded curtly and ushered them on. As they made their way towards the shrine he ambled behind at a distance. Several times the party stole a sullen look back before reverting to conferencing amongst themselves. Raghav, meanwhile, stayed alert for the assailant. A mistake, but the attacker was still at large.

As he neared the monastery a buzz filled the air. Devotees, dressed in white, thronged the shrine. His heart sank. There was safety in numbers – for their attacker. Mehrunisa said he was dressed in white, and in this churning ocean of milk, he could be anywhere.

Damn!

Kabul International Airport, Afghanistan

Tuesday 12:15 p.m.

At Kabul International Airport Sergeant Argento
stood
in queue and looked past the murky glass panes towards the Hindu Kush mountains that ringed the city of Kabul. He had watched them emerge from under the cover of morning fog to a growing grey huddle as the hours passed. Now, when departure was finally announced, lightning lit the surrounding hills through a frenzy of dark clouds and rain pounded the panes.

In the interim hours he had received no communication, had huddled over the map of Lahore such that its landmarks were imprinted on his irises, drunk countless cups of dreadful coffee, browsed through books at a bookstore, and the only thing that kept him mentally engaged was the beard who stalked him.

As he handed his boarding pass, he gave a last glance-over in the direction of the shadow he’d finally cast off. Long Beard was clearly not boarding. Instead he was talking on the phone, his eyes riveted on him.

Was he burned? Had his mission been compromised? But then, what was his mission exactly? When he himself didn’t know, how could the beard have any knowledge of it?

Perhaps the beard had kept a tab on him and was communicating that Argento was boarding. Which meant he could expect some sort of reception on arrival. Forewarned is forearmed. Ahead lay his undisclosed mission. Every mission entailed enemies. And Argento knew how to keep his eyes and ears open.

Murree, Pakistan

Tuesday 1:10 p.m.

When Raghav reached the monastery, the Sajjada
Nasheen lost no time in rounding up his men. He was after all not just the guardian of a revered shrine but also in his temporal role a respected landlord. A contingent of ten men went up the cliff with Raghav, all armed with guns, carrying a makeshift stretcher with them. Meanwhile, an emissary was hastily dispatched with an SUV to fetch the Sajjada’s personal physician and a surgeon from the Murree Government Hospital.

Raghav was finally able to unclench his jaw at the cave – the assailant had not resurfaced. Mehrunisa had, in the intervening time, ripped one of Aziz Mirza’s shirts taken from a carry-all stuffed with provisions, and made a temporary tourniquet. The tight bandage had stemmed the blood loss. Mirza though was delirious and moaned as he was lifted onto the cot. They headed back with Raghav leading. Two men provided him cover, two carried the cot, while Mehrunisa walked beside. A couple brought up the rear and the balance provided a flanking cover. Mirza’s head lolled on the stretcher and on several occasions he seemed to beckon Mehrunisa and mutter. She lowered her head to catch the words but it sounded like gibberish.

At the shrine the Sajjada was dressed in dazzling white, resplendent on the day of the Urs, as befitted a man who was the spiritual guide of the neighbouring peasantry and his countrywide followers. It was the wrong day for him to have a seriously wounded relative on his hands. However, he oversaw the arrangements as Aziz Mirza was sequestered in a room inside, heavily fortified by a posse of men handpicked by him. After a quick exchange with Mehrunisa and Raghav he returned to the day’s festivities.

‘Mirza doesn’t have any more information for us?’ Raghav asked, his eyes constantly scanning the crowd of devotees.

‘He was delirious in the cave, kept muttering.’ She paused and chewed an inner cheek. ‘Something about the General and a mirror.’

Raghav frowned at her before reverting to his reconnaissance. ‘What do you mean?’ A figure accosted him from behind. He jumped and glowered at the man whose hand was quizzing the air.

‘Where did you two go?’

It was Basheer, their young guide from the morning. He gesticulated frantically towards the shrine. ‘The Sajjada would like his guests to observe the beginning of the festivities.’

They exchanged a quiet look and trudged after Basheer. Inside, amidst the throng, they might be safer.

‘Don’t you want to know why we are not mourning the death of our saint but celebrating it?’ Basheer was taking the duty of a guide seriously. Raghav looked on mutely while Mehrunisa, probably aware of the custom considering she was half-Muslim, gave a weak smile. Raghav wished the boy would take that as a ‘yes’ and zip up but Basheer was eager to supply the answer. ‘It is only for
common people that death is a sad, mournful affair; for a Sufi it is only the next step to the wedding with the divine.’

‘Unh-hun,’ Raghav grunted as they entered the large hall and found themselves at the periphery of a sea of seated humanity that was edged by standees desirous of seeing the Sajjada. Basheer nodded and disappeared into the crowd. Raghav walked along the rim of the quivering mass to a massive marble pillar. There, they sat down cross-legged, their backs resting against the fluted column. It granted them enough anonymity to discuss their plans, while also pleasing their host with a token presence.

Raghav turned to Mehrunisa. She had drawn her turquoise shawl around her such that it half-covered her head. Mehrunisa was quite a chameleon. She was at ease with this celebration, just as she was with drinking red wine and studying dusty antiques and deciphering conspiracies and shooting armed assailants. Careful Raghav, he reminded himself, you are gushing like an awestruck adolescent. ‘What was it about the General and mirrors?’

Mehrunisa shrugged. ‘Remember what Mirza said earlier? When he talked about the General’s suspicious nature that trusted only a mirror, presumably his own reflection? Apparently the General would use a term from computer lingo –
wysiwyg
– to extol the virtue of mirrors.
What you see is what you get
. Then Mirza recounted an incident that occurred recently when the General was having one of his bouts of crippling shyness. Since he would not venture out of his bedroom Mirza went inside. He saw the dressing table mirror was smashed. The General was sobbing and complained that the mirror had cracked of its own accord, for no apparent reason. He was inconsolable, and it was in such a state that he first mentioned the Kohinoor. Mirza said his eyes had a devilish glint as he spoke about a document he had secreted away. It would be his lifeline and he called it Kohinoor.’

Raghav wrinkled his brow.

The slap of a drum resounded. A team of professional singers was tuning their instruments down the hall that was filling with the fragrance of offerings, rose, jasmine, incense.

‘What did Mirza mean when he said the Kohinoor is cursed?’ Raghav muttered.

‘One of those urban legends,’ Mehrunisa shrugged. ‘It’s believed that the Kohinoor carries with it a curse and only when in the possession of a woman will the curse not work. All the men who owned it have either lost their throne or had other misfortunes befall them. The British are wary of this curse and so far, only Queen Victoria and Queen Elizabeth have worn the gem as sovereigns.’

A clang sounded and they looked ahead. ‘The chaadar ceremony,’ Mehrunisa said.

Devotees had gathered to adorn the tomb of the saint with a sheet and seek his blessings. A rustling started at the right of the tomb from the musical troupe. A qawwali would shortly commence. Raghav was familiar with this aspect of the celebration. He had witnessed it at the Chishti Dargah in Ajmer, the famous Sufi shrine that was revered by most Indians regardless of their faith. He had visited it first on a school trip, then with friends from college and had even taken his wife when on their honeymoon in Rajasthan.

The qawwal, a short heavy man, sat staring at the floor. Behind him one of the men tuned a tabla, drumming it, rotating it, gently hammering the leather as he ascertained the right tuning. Two men with harmoniums flanked the qawwal and they worked the pump organ softly. Waiting for the right moment to sing, the qawwal closed his eyes as he slowly gathered his hands in front of him. Immediately, a hush descended on the hall, as if all eyes had been on the qawwal all along. It was a signal for the song to begin and the audience readied to listen.

The sudden silence was disquieting after the earlier bustle and Raghav cast a habitual look around. Straight ahead a man was leaning against one of the pillars that bordered the hall. He was dressed in a shalwar kameez, his body wrapped in a loosely slung shawl. His hooded eyes were focused on them. He troubled Raghav. Was it the fact that he was one of the few men standing, or the strangely intense look on his face or the way his eyes bored into him?

The man moved away from the pillar and the crowds and started to walk through the vacant yard in their direction. Raghav saw him reach within his blanket and withdraw something. A scabbard! He held it upright by the hilt, the golden sheath at least three feet tall. As Raghav watched in horror, the man, in one clean move, pulled a sword out. The long curved blade of the scimitar glistened, its sharp edge splitting the sunlight.