THE HUNT FOR KOHINOOR BOOK 2 OF THE THRILLER SERIES FEATURING MEHRUNISA (13 page)

Murree, Pakistan

Tuesday 6:56 a.m.

On the outskirts of Murree, at Mohra Shareef,
stood
the shrine of the pir, a Sufi saint.

Snow sat in heavy covers atop the curved roof of the shrine and the rooftops of outlying buildings. The t
emperature was close to freezing. The thick mist that had hovered over the Cruiser on the journey up wafted over the capacious grounds of the isolated monastery like freshly released smoke. With the engine dead the sudden stillness of their surroundings came almost as a shock. Mehrunisa rolled her shoulders as she eased herself out of the passenger seat and stepped out.
The ground was awash in a thick layer of snow.

Raghav looked at her, ‘Shall we?’

The cold air stung her nostrils as they walk
ed up to the monastery. From her backpack she removed the jacket Mishra had provided – his burqa was in the debris at the begum’s home. At the gated entrance a
guard wrapped in a thick quilt peered at them. More guards could be sighted in an outhouse beyond.

‘We are here to meet the Sajjada Nasheen,’ Mehrunisa said.

‘Evidently. You wouldn’t be here seeking Shahid Afridi,’ the guard said with wry humour.

His head had begun to swing in refusal when Mehrunisa added, ‘We’ve driven up all the way in the night through snow – it is critical.’

He clucked. ‘Everyone who comes to the pir has something critical to ask for. Harder the journey, higher the suffering, greater the desire for
fulfilment. What are you seeking, lady? A son?’

Mehrunisa’s glacial mask slid into place, the narrowed pupils exaggerating the greyness of the eyes. ‘A daughter actually, sister to the five sons I have already.’

Realizing the guard was sufficiently bemused, she continued in an imperious voice, ‘Can you convey a message to him?’

The guard pointed to his watch indicating the early hour.

‘There was a suicide bomb attack at the Lahore home of the Nasheen’s sister last night.’ She lowered her voice, ‘I was there but managed to escape. I have an urgent message to convey.’

He made them wait in his cubicle by the gate. After ten minutes he returned and led them inside the monastery to a living room. After flicking on the light, he fired up a pot-bellied wood-burning stove and asked them to wait. Then he stood by the door, hands folded over his belly.

The room was decorated in an ornate style that bordered on kitschy: velvet sofas with embroidered cushions, pistachio-green walls and walnut tables with ornate legs. A tomato-red carpet with a golden floral pattern covered the floor. A man walked into the room, rotund with the enormous girth of one who spent a lot of time sitting. A shawl was draped on his shoulders and he had a chubby, childlike face. As they made to rise he waved to them to keep sitting. Then he sat heavily on the sofa opposite them and watched them silently with his small eyes. After several minutes of scrutiny, he spoke, ‘You have a message?’

His lilting voice was at odds with his face.

Mehrunisa was off the block as she proceeded to explain how she had met Begum Ameena, the bomb blast and the begum’s missive. She avoided any mention of her connection with Indian intelligence.

‘Were you followed?’ asked the Sajjada Nasheen quietly.

‘No,’ Raghav replied.

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Because we make it our business to be sure.’

‘And what business would that be?’

When Raghav stayed quiet, Mehrunisa interjected, ‘Please. It is critical that we meet with Aziz Mirza as soon as possible.’

The next minute a servant stepped into the room with a tray laden with tea. Everyone stayed quiet while he served. On his departure, the Nasheen waved a hand to the guard who stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

‘Ameena called me in the night. I was expecting you. But I need to be sure that you were not followed. You see, Aziz has escaped one attempt on his life already. The reason he is hiding is because he expects another attack, and another, until he is eliminated. His enemies are not in a forgiving mood.’ As Mehrunisa made to interject, he raised his hand for silence. ‘Your mission is critical, otherwise Ameena would not have sent you. But Aziz is under my protection and I am responsible for him. So, let’s get some facts out of the way. Ameena hasn’t told me but I’m not a fool. This man here,’ he pointed to Raghav, ‘is obviously from the Indian intelligence. So, if he says that you were not followed, I can believe him. But you, young lady, you look to me like a novice. What exactly is your role in this entire operation?’

The question was justified. She had to gain the man’s confidence, get him on her side. ‘Let me begin my introducing myself. I am Mehrunisa, and this here is my friend Raghav.’

She noticed Nasheen’s eyes flicker with interest. ‘Mehrunisa,’ he said softly.

‘My mother gave me the name. She was Persian, a Shia.’ Mehrunisa paused to let the religious denomination sink in.

‘And your father,’ he asked, clearly intrigued.

‘My father is Indian, a Sikh.’

‘And you Mehrunisa. What are you?’

‘I am a product of my parents. They are my
murshid
.’

Her use of ‘murshid’ was deliberate. The different faiths of both parents, neither of them didactic, had osmosed into her. A murshid in Sufi faith was a spiritual guide. And the Sajjada Nasheen was the head of a monastery dedicated to a revered saint of Sufi faith, increasingly threatened by the Arab-ised Wahabbi Islam of the jihadis.

‘An amalgam, hunh? Then do you find yourself at odds with the world, Mehrunisa?’

‘At times, yes. Fundamentalists are looking to define it in black and white, using faith to grab power.’ Mehrunisa leaned forward, holding the Nasheen’s attention. ‘But
Tasawwuf
is a spiritual journey.’

The Sajjada Nasheen regarded her frankly. Then he waved his hand at the tea on the table. ‘It is cold and tea must be had hot.’ He helped himself to a teacup and proceeded to sip, his eyes half-closed as if in meditation. Mehrunisa and Raghav followed course though she felt she would rather avail of a toilet first.

‘The faith is under attack from those who would define it with their own narrow vision, with bombs and guns. But the meek do not inherit the earth. The righteous do. And the righteous must stand their ground.’ He looked at Raghav, then Mehrunisa, studying them both. ‘This mission poses danger to your lives, yet you are pursuing it. Why?’

Quietly Mehrunisa said, ‘There are more lives at stake.’

‘And we are doing our duty,’ Raghav added.

‘The good warriors!’ The Nasheen inclined his head slightly. ‘Well said. Eventually, there is one principle, and one principle alone on which the world is hinged: things will work out the way they should, provided we do what we should.’

He nodded. ‘Aziz is in the mountains in a safe sanctuary. You know how to climb a mountain, yes? One of my men will escort you to a point from where you’ll have to make it on your own. I trust very few with information on his whereabouts. This trustworthy fellow takes some supplies frequently.’ He paused, his eyes resting on Mehrunisa, ‘You see, Aziz has gone underground.’

Kabul International Airport, Afghanistan

Tuesday 8:10 a.m.

Sergeant Travis Argento, dressed in civvy clothes,
was waiting to catch the Pakistan International Airlines flight to Lahore. He wore a charcoal-coloured business suit, ill-fitted over his modest shoulders. His business card stated that he worked for Aqua Raven as a security consultant and his passport showed several exit stamps from Pakistan, even though it would be the first time the US sergeant would set foot in the country. However, since Aqua Raven was involved in the covert business of protecting US interests in the AfPak region, procuring a new passport was par for the course.

A delay in the flight was announced and Argento decided to use the time to pore over the map he’d pulled out of his briefcase. Lahore was the first port of call – a phone call would alert him to further course of action, as and when new information was available.

The mission was notable for its lack of a blueprint and Argento had the distinct feeling that General McCormick would design that plan in real time. Which would be the reason why the General had picked him in the first place. The Sergeant’s one strength was that he was immune to panic – which made him an intuitive improviser. As he casually surveyed the lounge he did not miss the long beard studying him intently from two rows across. Again.

Dressed like a regular Afghan in shalwar kameez, bomber jacket and turban, he blended in the milieu. Nobody else would have noticed but Argento could discern the man’s interest in him. Like any Special Operations officer, he was trained in surveillance. Since entering the airport he had switched location several times – browsing at a bookstore, hanging out near a coffee dispenser, waiting in the lounge – and at each he’d casually
established a perimeter, assessed it for entry and exit, for potential weapons of attack as he studied the different people within the encompassed area. At each area of scrutiny, Long Beard had shown up.

Without revealing his particular interest, Argento scanned the area and assessed the bearded man for weapons and gadgetry. Nothing apparent, but that jacket and the loose clothes could hide a gun locker…

Murree, Pakistan

Tuesday 8:17 a.m.

Basheer was their young escort to Aziz Mirza’s
hideout.
He handed them walking sticks for the uphill trudge through the snow. Mehrunisa had earlier excused herself and utilized a washroom down the corridor.

Now, stepping out into the cold after the warmth of the wood-fired room, she rubbed her hands before rolling her pashmina muffler fashion around her neck. It had started to snow, the flurry adding to the ethereal beauty of the place. They followed Basheer who had walked ahead and was waiting at an incline under a deodar tree. With his raised stick he indicated ahead to a forested area of tall pine and birch trees. Quietly they set up the slope after him, the walking stick proving effective as it dug into the top layer of soft snow before hitting the frozen ice below. Mehrunisa estimated there was at least three feet of snow on the ground. The air was thin, sharp and icy with each inhalation.

She looked at Raghav, who was attempting to navigate the terrain with his usual brisk efficiency, but failing. He had grown up in a hot and humid region in the south of India and looked as comfortable as a camel in the Tundra. Mehrunisa’s growing up years were spent mostly in Italy, and skiing in the Alps during winter holidays was a family pursuit. Papa had taught her skiing – an image zoomed in front of her eyes, a heavily-bandaged man, his wrists and ankles taped to the chair in which he sat, oddly attired in a suit of fine wool. Her suddenly moist eyes blurred the falling flurry into gobs of cotton wool.

Around them the faint light was getting brighter. Everything was eerily quiet, the hush of the falling snow snuffing any other sound. Basheer was now winding his way through a dirt track that led uphill through thick forest.

‘How much further?’ Raghav asked.

Basheer looked back, his brow raised. ‘Tired already? You city folks are not used to the mountains, especially when they are covered with snow. Though this time snow has arrived early.’

Raghav scowled and tapped an index finger against his wrist.

Basheer shrugged. ‘Ten-twenty minutes. Depends how fast you walk.’ With that he took off again, scampering up the incline, bent forward like an animal.

Raghav muttered beneath his breath as he attempted to keep pace. The sight of his quivering moustache amused Mehrunisa. Basheer had disappeared around a bend and as they followed they saw a small clearing. In front of the clearing rose a high jagged mountain.

Basheer stood akimbo. ‘This is as far as I can take you.’ He pointed to a large stump in the middle of the clearing. ‘That is where I drop the supplies, twice a week. After that I head back.’

An incredulous Raghav said, ‘This, here!’

Basheer shrugged, looking ready to turn any minute and begin his descent.

Mehrunisa was chewing the inside of her lower lip as she contemplated the area around, when she saw Raghav tense up. He brought a finger to his lips; his two companions understood immediately and followed Raghav’s gaze as he scanned the area around. Then they heard it too, a sound like a twig snapping beneath a foot. Raghav’s eyes locked with Mehrunisa and he gestured to her with a flick of his fingers: Basheer and she were to head towards the trees at the bottom of the cliff. With his gun held in front of him he walked slowly until he was positioned in the centre of the clearing, the gun pointed towards the path they had just walked up from.

Snow fell softly, its gentle sweep exaggerated in the imposed quiet of the air. And yet, there it came again, another sound like a snap of a branch, this time louder. Raghav’s shoulders were taut, his eyes trained on the opening. Mehrunisa followed his gaze, her right hand cradling the pistol in her waist belt. Several tense moments passed in which she wondered if she would be able to use the gun if required. Anticipation beaded her upper lip and the hand above the pistol was clammy. Then Basheer’s laughter broke the silence like a hammer hitting a glass vase. Raghav recoiled, his gun pointed at their young guide who had stepped forward holding his stomach as he guffawed loudly.

Mehrunisa caught his shoulder and shook it fiercely. By now Basheer had tears streaming down his cheek as he pointed a finger in the direction of the clearing. They followed it. Their shoulders sagged with relief.

A fat snow monkey was perched on a truncated branch of a pine tree. His muddy, grey coat was flecked with snow. That camouflaged him as he snapped a branch of the tree, stripped the bark off with its teeth, then discarded the branch on the ground. A snap and a snip.

Mehrunisa blew air out with relief as Raghav raised his brow sheepishly. Snow monkeys were native to the Himalayan region; no wonder Basheer was beside himself with mirth. Now, still giggling, he waved goodbye as he trudged back to the monastery.