‘Zamzama!’ Mirza tilted his head back as he snorted.
Raghav looked at Aziz Mirza, then Mehrunisa. She caught his eye but kept a perfectly straight face. Raghav was not privy to what Harry had disclosed, and if needed she would bluff her way through. She tried to recall salient facts about the historical gun she’d first encountered in Kipling’s Kim – which at that moment held a terrifying power.
Aziz Mirza swung his head in slow motion. ‘Trust Harry. You know,’ he looked at Mehrunisa, his lips bared to reveal surprisingly white teeth, ‘that is what I called him. Know why?’
She shrugged.
‘Well, it’s not polite for use in front of ladies but so you get the drift, it’s a term men use for friends when they are suitably drunk. For context, remember that Punjab is a land where people speak big, value big things, and the Zamzama is a big gun!’
Mehrunisa’s response was a weak smile.
‘Hmm.’ He cast a look around. ‘Do you want to sit down?’ He pointed to a corner where a sleeping bag was lined up against the wall, a Primus stove placed a foot away. ‘The cave is a refrigerator, which is why I look like a gluttonous Santa. The stove keeps me warm but I can’t use it 24 x 7.’ He looked around him thoughtfully before he said, ‘Perhaps I can suggest the terrace? The view is better and the superior light will enable us to see each other without squinting.’
His transition to a gracious host was unnerving – Mehrunisa nodded in the fashion of a car’s dashboard doll.
Raghav was the first to climb up the rock ladder. Several minutes of reconnaissance before he reported a clear coast. Aziz Mirza meanwhile stripped a couple of layers to allow himself the width that would enable him to slip out of the opening. He hoisted the stove through it and went up as well. Mehrunisa followed next, and was grateful for the sight of the dim light in the cave.
She took the chance to study her father’s friend as he was occupied with the stove. Mirza had probably lost weight in the few days he had been in hiding. The deterioration though was not related to time, it was more to do with the deprivation of all comfort – something a person from the high-class society of the Subcontinent was oblivious to. His cheeks were sunken, the face gaunt. His hands seemed to shake as he worked the Primus, the nails grubby. Only the thick hair visible on his bare hands and in the rough beard was in robust condition. Aziz Mirza looked like a shadow of the man whose photograph Jag Mishra had shown her. He had an arresting face that looked like it had been sheared off from the skull, the jaw jutted dangerously forward such that in profile his face exhibited a forty-five degree angle were a line to run down from his forehead to the nose and jaw.
Soon the stove was burning and the three were sitting in a circle around it. Raghav was fidgety and frowned at Mehrunisa to hasten things up. However, Mirza looked like he could do with company. A little conversation would loosen him up.
‘How do you pass time?’ she asked. From the corner of her eyes she saw Raghav roll his eyes.
‘Meditation,’ Mirza replied, his mouth lifting in a sneer. ‘It is wonderful how much a man will remember God when he has no other distractions.’ He laughed at his observation as he removed his wool cap. He had a belly laugh, in keeping with his sonorous voice. He seemed to be speaking louder than was necessary, perhaps from the lack of visitors. His hair, grey scrub around his head, revealed an arid pate.
Outside the snowfall had stopped. A weak sun was glinting off the ice. The cave entrance was festooned with icicles, thin and long like daggers, as if out of a children’s storybook. Raghav’s voice brought her back to the real world.
‘Where did the President hide the Kohinoor?’
Aziz Mirza grinned. ‘Not for the first time in history are you the only ones in quest of the Kohinoor.’
Raghav was aware of the chequered history of the world’s most famous diamond – Mehrunisa had supplied it en route to Lahore. The origins of the Kohinoor were multiple. A mythological tale claimed it was once worn by Krishna but was stolen from him as he lay sleeping. Another source had it that the diamond was discovered in a riverbed in 3200 BC. The first reliable evidence of it, however, was in the writings of Babur, the founder of the Mughal Empire, who named it as part of the treasure won by Alauddin at the conquest of Malwa in the fourteenth century. The Mughals acquired the Kohinoor in 1526. At that time it was said to weigh roughly 800 carats, but through some incredibly ham-fisted cutting and polishing by a jeweller named Borgio, it was reduced to 186 carats. Borgio had been working on it for years, but so enraged was Mughal emperor Aurangzeb at the result, that he confiscated all of Borgio’s worldly goods and contemplated executing him.
Apparently, the Kohinoor, in its time, was valuable enough to feed the whole world for two-and-a-half days.
Now Mehrunisa heard a grim Raghav speak, ‘We are aware of the legions of stories around the Kohinoor. But as you know, time is of essence and we don’t have the luxury of playing Trivial Pursuit. If you disclose where it is, we’ll be on our way. Ultimately, Kohinoor in the right hands will also ensure that you can leave your hideout and stop living like a fugitive.’
Mirza nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, the thought has struck me. But,’ he lifted one helpless shoulder, ‘I am unable to help. I don’t know where the General kept his Kohinoor.’
‘What?’ chorused Mehrunisa and Raghav.
‘Let’s just say the General was a suspicious sort. The only thing he trusted was a mirror.’ He paused, his eyes darting in some internal delight. ‘He took a perverse delight in labelling it “Kohinoor”, precious as the famed gem, for the secrets it held were cherished by all parties involved: US, India, Afghanistan, Taliban. Do you know that in the year 2000, even the Taliban demanded the return of the Kohinoor claiming that their right on the gem is stronger than that of any other party involved in the dispute?’
Mehrunisa urged him now. ‘Okay but you were his close confidant and an aide in the secret negotiations. Surely, you would know what the contents of the hidden papers were?’
‘I wish.’ When Raghav and Mehrunisa continued to regard him, he wagged his head. ‘Look, you have to understand the kind of man the General was. A shy showman! One day strutting like a peacock, the next hiding in his room, refusing to meet his ADC even – aide-de-camp? During one such phase he kept a Saudi prince waiting a whole morning. When the prince threatened to cut his aid, the General emerged for the meeting in his dressing gown and sat the whole time with his face in his hands.’ Mirza shook his head. ‘On those days he didn’t even trust the mirror.’
‘You mean it’s a dead end, you can’t help us!’ Mehrunisa’s voice had risen. ‘Surely you could hazard a guess as to its hideout.’
Aziz Mirza stayed impassive. Raghav muttered an expletive under his breath and abruptly started to pace the cave. A shot rang out and Mehrunisa saw Mirza slowly topple to the floor of the cave. Suddenly Raghav leapt on her, taking Mehrunisa with himself to the ground. Another shot rang out.
‘Fuck!’ Raghav yelled, his face contorted in pain above Mehrunisa. Raising himself on an elbow he touched his left arm; his hand came away bloodied.
Stretched out on the floor he fired rapidly at the mouth of the cave. Mehrunisa lifted herself gingerly from behind him. When no answering shot was heard she crawled towards Mirza who was sprawled on the floor. His mouth twisted with pain as he clutched his right arm; a red patch had grown on the shoulder. ‘I told you,’ he grimaced. ‘You couldn’t have been careful enough!’
Without turning to look back Raghav ordered, ‘Quick, position your gun.’
Mehrunisa swallowed and pulled the Glock out of the waistband of her jeans. She levelled it in the manner Raghav had taught her in the helicopter. Raghav was diagonally across from her, his hand steady. The bullet had probably only glanced him.
Outside the sun was glinting off the snow, rendering everything hazy. It was difficult to focus for long without her vision blur
ring. Raghav crawled forward on his belly, towards the mouth of the cave. He was halfway across when he went into a spasm.
‘What is it?’ Mehrunisa whispered.
‘A scorpion,’ he said through gritted teeth.
A weakened Mirza supplied from the rear of the cave, ‘They reside in the cave. A real nuisance, especially when they enter your sleeping bag. Ya-Allah! To have suffered all that for this end.’
Raghav shook his right leg furiously. Mehrunisa’s eyes were flitting from outside to her friend when she detected a movement. A hush had descended on the area. A faint scrape, a shape detached from the snowy backdrop, it approached the cave. A man dressed in white blending into the snowy landscape. No time to think. She levelled her gun and fired. Two things happened simultaneously. A white shape appeared at the mouth of the cave and an icicle plunged downwards from the roof.
Mehrunisa forgot to pull the trigger repeatedly as she had been instructed. It was Raghav who let off a barrage of shots. The figure had vanished.
‘Who was it?’ Raghav asked.
Mehrunisa shrugged. She was still shaky from having fired her first shot and was looking at the warm gun in her hand with surprise. Raghav plastered himself to the wall near the entrance. Removing a small mirror from his breast pocket, he angled it outwards and monitored the mirror for reflection. All snow, nothing untoward.
‘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 part
ed 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?
THE HUNT FOR KOHINOOR BOOK 2 OF THE THRILLER SERIES FEATURING MEHRUNISA Page 14