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

by Manreet Sodhi Someshwar

  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.

  Murree, Pakistan

  Tuesday 1:52 p.m.

  Raghav gripped Mehrunisa’s arm and slid forward

  as shield even as his right hand cradled his Glock. He felt her wince and peer from behind him. The man with the sword was less than five feet away. One lunge of his scimitar would behead him – should he shoot now?

  From Raghav’s right a figure hurtled towards the striding man. He stopped in his tracks. Basheer was gesticulating wildly with his hands. The man nodd
ed and sheepishly returned the sword to its scabbard. Basheer fell in step with the man and guided him on, away from them. Behind him Mehrunisa exhaled her relief.

  ‘What the heck was that?’ Raghav could still feel the adrenaline charge in his body.

  Mehrunisa followed their progress. Basheer rounded the pavilion and stopped near a group of men, one of whom took the sword. On their way back Basheer pretended to wallop the tall man who grinned. ‘A sword for gifting,’ she said to Raghav. ‘For some dignitary in the gathering I guess. It’s not unusual.’

  Raghav was unconvinced. ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘The man who took the sword,’ she pointed with her chin in the direction of the officious group, ‘is from the dargah committee – the Sajjada introduced him earlier when I accompanied Aziz Mirza inside.’

  ‘Bloody,’ Raghav muttered and pocketed his pistol. A few minutes later he was back on track. ‘Any guesses as to where the Kohinoor is?’

  Mehrunisa pursed her mouth. ‘I have been thinking and there is one likely place. Let’s start with the assumption that the General hid the Kohinoor somewhere in Pakistan. Right? In which case, which city would he choose? Islamabad, the capital and the city of his residence? Karachi, the most populous city in Pakistan? Or could it be Lahore? Well, to identify the location, let’s step back from the General’s Kohinoor and examine the legendary Kohinoor. Obviously, he set a lot of store by that gem.’

  In the background the music was growing. As the men on the harmoniums began in the chosen key, the tabla player kept a steady beat. In a high-pitched voice the qawwal started the singing with praise of Mohammed.

  Mehrunisa lowered her head close to Raghav to be heard above the singing. ‘Our first assumption dictates that the Kohinoor is in Pakistan. So, let’s look at what is common between Pakistan and the Kohinoor? The Mughals. But the legendary Kohinoor was never displayed by the Mughals in Pakistan. Shah Jahan was the first emperor to exhibit it in Agra, in his Peacock Throne. So, which Pakistani city did the Mughals patronize? Lahore. It was the capital of the Mughal Empire under Akbar. However, the Kohinoor was never displayed in Lahore…

  ‘Is there another link between Kohinoor and Lahore then? Yes. Kohinoor was lost to the Mughals when the Persian invader Nadir Shah sacked Agra and Delhi in 1739. Along with the Peacock Throne, he also carried off the Kohinoor to Persia. After his assassination in 1747, the stone came into the hands of Ahmad Shah Abdali of Afghanistan. Then in 1830, Shah Shuja, the deposed ruler of Afghanistan, managed to flee with the diamond. He then came to Lahore where it was given to Maharaja Ranjit Singh, the Sikh king. Ranjit Singh returned the favour by winning back the Afghan throne for Shah Shuja.’

  Raghav sighed. Mehrunisa had a history professor’s love for the subject of her study, but he also depended on her deductive logic. While working with her on the Taj conspiracy he had initially been dismissive of her historical thoroughness. However, that proved precipitate – where it concerned history, she saw things that he seldom did. The Subcontinent had been fertile ground for invaders through four millenia, time in which it had marinated in alternating layers of history – a fact not to be trifled with, he had learnt.

  ‘Professor of antiquity, I guess you are heading somewhere.’

  Mehrunisa lowered her eyelids slowly, a dismissive gesture he was familiar with, as she thought something through. Meanwhile, the qawwal was reeling a verse, which was picked up by his chorus singers, and as it built to a climax, all passionately returned to the chorus, over and over, for several minutes. Raghav turned from the intoxicating chant as Mehrunisa spoke.

  ‘From India to Persia to Afghanistan to India again. Only this time, the empire is a Sikh empire of the Punjabi king who has his capital in Lahore. And,’ Mehrunisa’s face lit up, ‘Ranjit Singh did display the Kohinoor in Lahore! In Sheesh Mahal.’

  ‘Sheesh Mahal?’

  ‘In Lahore Fort.’

  ‘A building within the fort?’

  ‘Yes! Sheesh Mahal, the Glass Palace, was built by Shah Jahan. The distinctive Shah Jahani architecture is reflected in the extensive use of white marble. During the Sikh Empire, it became Ranjit Singh’s favourite place. So much so, that he built a harem atop it. This was also where he displayed his prized possession, the Kohinoor.’

  ‘But this Kohinoor is a document. Where in the Sheesh Mahal would the General hide it?’

  Mehrunisa shrugged.

  A hand snaked forward and grabbed her shoulder. Raghav jumped as a startled Mehrunisa looked up. An elderly woman, her head covered with a white dupatta, stood behind her. ‘You are summoned. Inside the house. Begum would like to see you.’

  Begum: one of the wives of the Sajjada Nasheen; the fact that she was keen to meet her meant that she’d likely be Aziz Mirza’s sister.

  ‘Watch out!’ Raghav hissed as Mehrunisa followed the woman who weaved her way through the heaving crowd. Raghav, meanwhile, watched her back and once she was safely inside the house he looked around again. The hall was now pulsating with the audience’s rhythmic claps and the lilting high-pitched singing of the qawwali troupe.

  Nothing caught his eye as Raghav deliberated over Mehrunisa’s hypothesis. He knew she was an expert on Mughal history and work with her had taught him to respect her intuitive reasoning, but he was unconvinced. The connection between the General’s Kohinoor and the Sheesh Mahal was tenuous, at best. But where could the darned papers be? Why did Mirza feel the need to mutter that bit about the General and his mirror to Mehrunisa? The man had been drifting off, yet felt the need to narrate a silly anecdote. Unless that anecdote was relevant…

  Mehrunisa found herself in a room styled like a theatre dressing room, mirrors along the walls with chairs in front. Seated in front of a vanity mirror with peripheral light bulbs glowing bright was a distraught woman. The wounded Aziz Mirza was her brother clearly. Mehrunisa greeted the begum.

  She returned the greeting, turned and caught Mehrunisa’s hands. Her voice was bird-like as she thanked her. ‘All I want is to sit by my brother’s side, but as the Sajjada’s wife I have a duty to fulfil on Urs day.’ On a sigh she let go of Mehrunisa’s hands. Then she handed Mehrunisa a handheld mirror to help her view her elaborate hairdo. Satisfied, she stood up and walked across the room.

  Her image moved multifold in the multiple mirrors – the swirling silver anarkali kameez made Mehrunisa’s eyes blink rapidly. A scene from the classic Hindi film, Mughal-e-Azam, sprang to her mind. A famous dance sequence in the film was shot in a sheesh mahal, and as the heroine twirled, myriad miniature Anarkalis dazzled in the encompassing mirrors.

  ‘This is for you.’ The begum handed her a plastic bag.

  Mehrunisa was lost in her recollection and the begum, with a motion of her chin, urged her to open it. A blue burqa.

  ‘For your safety,’ the begum added.

  As Mehrunisa left the room clutching her gift, she chewed her inner lip on a thought that had struck her. It sounded crazy but it was feasible … The General, with his supposed passion for mirrors, understood the potential of the Glass Palace for hiding his prized Kohinoor. Additionally, Sheesh Mahal in Lahore Fort was the last historical resting place of the famed Kohinoor.

  It had to be Lahore!

  Srinagar, India

  Tuesday 2:23 p.m.

  Harry was recovering quickly from his shrapnel injuries. He had developed the healing process over the period of his career – in a world increasingly fraught with terror and its lethal fallout, injury management was an essential element of the spying toolkit.

  When Jag Mishra entered Harry’s room, he faced his upright back. Quietly Mishra walked to the front. Harry was seated cross-legged on a mat on the floor, arms outstretched, wrists on knees, back straight, eyes closed, breathing regular. Meditation. It was something his friend relied upon for recovery. Even the doctors approved. If there was one thing that could delay recuperation, it was
stress. And Mishra had no doubt about the stress Harry was under. Nevertheless, not only did he need to heal fast, he had to regain top form quickly. And there stood Jag Mishra, poised to deliver a lightning prod.

  He waited for Harry to open his eyes. Then, without preamble, he outlined in his calm manner the events that had transpired with Mehrunisa and Raghav since they had departed. In a flash, Harry had sprung to his feet – displaying the agility that still surprised Mishra after so many years – and Mishra found himself aloft, dangling a foot from the ground.

  From his heavily bandaged face, Harry’s eyes glowered at Mishra. His friend could kill him at this very moment, Mishra thought, as he pondered his next move. He could take a swing at Harry’s groin, which would buy him a moment in which to pull out his pistol. But he doused it. Even with his one hand gripping Mishra by the neck of his shirt, Harry would take less than a couple of seconds to simultaneously dump him and seize his pistol. No. A suspended Mishra was hoping Harry’s trademark ability to rein in his emotions would assert itself, and save him.

  ‘You had no right to send her into the field!’

  The next instant Harry let go. Mishra fell to the floor, lurched and steadied himself with the bedpost to his right. As he straightened he smoothed his powder blue cashmere pullover, patting it in an attempt to collect himself. ‘I had no other option.’

  Harry was breathing heavily as he glared at him, his teeth bared like an animal’s. ‘Don’t waste your politics on me, Mishra.’ He walked up to the barred window and looked out. After a while, he spoke. His voice was dispassionate, remote. ‘Congrats Chanakya. Your plan is working.’

  Mishra stayed silent. Harry’s use of his moniker ‘Chanakya’, the one by which Mishra was addressed behind his back, was not lost on him.

  ‘You knew I would not go into the field after I discovered your deception. But without the Snow Leopard, you and your team are putty. So what does the mighty Chanakya decide? He takes a hapless cub and throws her to the hyenas. Doubtless the Snow Leopard will follow.’