THE HUNT FOR KOHINOOR BOOK 2 OF THE THRILLER SERIES FEATURING MEHRUNISA (6 page)

Karachi

Monday noon

Qari Abdullah had the look of a wizened old man. It
did not help that for an Afghan he was small and thin, almost drowning in his large turban’s loose end as he shuffled down the road. His manner, while not furtive, was that of a man who wished to be inconspicuous. In the rundown neighbourhood on the outskirts of Karachi he blended right in with his white shalwar kameez, black turban and a cheque shawl draped such that it obscured part of his face.

In an open playground bordered by shrubbery beyond which sprouted low-rise unadorned apartment blocks, a bunch of boys played cricket. Three stones placed one atop another served for wickets. Qari Abdullah scrutinized the boys before hurrying into a plain brick building. It was a madrasa, a local religious school where young boys were provided with food, lodging and religious education. The only subject they learnt was recitation of the Quran, that too in Arabic, a language they did not know.

Inside the building’s quadrangle, Qari Abdullah exchanged greetings with the teacher, a block of a man whose trousers were hitched way above his ankles, in the fashion of peasants, and a henna-coloured wavy beard. Abdullah enquired softly, ‘How’s he doing?’

‘Good, good,’ the mullah nodded enthusiastically. ‘Ready, very ready.’

Qari Abdullah nodded, shook his hand and said, ‘I’ll go inside to talk to him.’ The mullah extended a hand in the direction of the corridor that branched into rooms. As he watched Abdullah shuffle towards the corridor, the mullah bore the smug smile of one who had delivered on his promise.

The boy sat on the floor, his head bowed as if in contemplation. He was dressed in a plain grey shalwar kameez, a bright red chitrali cap on his head. He had not noticed Abdullah’s arrival and was startled when Abdullah spoke.

‘How are you, Mehmud?’

‘Ready for the mission.’ The reply was robotic.

Abdullah liked the answer. Yet, he was there to ensure that the boy’s resolve had not weakened as the deadline approached.

‘Most human beings are scared of death. You are not?’

‘Death in this world does not scare me. This life is temporary. If I achieve martyrdom I shall reach Paradise. Which is the world of meaning.’

‘Good, good,’ Abdullah wagged his head in agreement as he lifted his palms and his eyes skywards. ‘It is the chosen few who are martyrs.’

Mehmud wore a blank look as he rocked back and forth. The boys were instructed in the rocking motion as they spent hours huddled over the Quran, their eyes glazing over the unfamiliar text, their minds absorbing it by rote.

At thirty-six, Qari Abdullah was a regional Taliban commander, in charge of recruiting young suicide bombers. Qari owed his debilitated look to the decades of war in which he had grown up, trailed his family and his community’s elders until at age twelve he became a mujahidin and drove out the Soviets, then joined the Taliban and drove out the home-grown communists, and now was waging a holy war against the infidel Americans.

Abdullah liked the new commander: he had the zeal of Mullah Omar whom Qari had seen as a young boy, and the legendary aura of one Afghan called Khan. The new commander had chosen Qari for the mission because he was reputed to have never failed. That was because Qari had not forgotten what it was like to be a wide-eyed eight-year-old boy enamoured of strapping males with their Kalshnikov guns. They would humour him and allow him to carry the guns from one point to another – a job that could go to a pony, a donkey or an eager boy.

When Qari started to indoctrinate young boys he made sure they got to see the weapons and handle them occasionally. It whetted their appetite and gave them hope that one day, inshallah, they would use the same weapons as soldiers of Allah in the holy war.

From within the folds of his kameez Qari withdrew a disc. ‘Play it,’ he urged Mehmud.

Mechanically, Mehmud proceeded to insert the disc into a DVD player that was arranged below a TV against one wall of the room. He slouched back to his original position and started to rock.

The screen flickered before the grey merged into green. A boy faced the camera, an outsized gun aloft in his right hand. He spoke earnestly into the camera about his mission, about the holy war and how he was going to Paradise. The video ended with a plaintive song about how the boy’s body would never be found – it would be scattered in pieces all over his beloved land. And his soul would look down upon it from heaven.

‘You,’ Abdullah pointed at young Mehmud, ‘you’ll be recording your own video soon. And then, my boy,
you
will be the hero whom all others will watch!’

Srinagar, India

Monday noon

The washroom was a white-tiled affair with a single
washbasin, one mirror and a toilet in a corner. Mehrunisa studied herself in the mirror. She had come there to collect her thoughts before she met her father. Even as she thought about it, it sounded incredible. In the couple of hours she had been in Srinagar, the revelations had grown increasingly bizarre. She felt trapped in a Dali painting, where clocks were melting and time, as she knew it, had ceased to be relevant.

Her father, her supposedly dead father, was alive! And had been so all those years she had spent questioning, seething, reconciling … where her companions had been regular nightmares of that father.
Badly injured
. That was what the portly Mishra had said. The thought of his being alive hadn’t even sunk in when it was divulged that he was wounded.

Mehrunisa felt her stomach hollow out, a familiar feeling that was akin to being in an elevator in free fall. She clutched the ceramic washbasin and breathed through an open mouth. She started to shiver. According to the Buddha who held the lifeline to her father, she would see him briefly before she set off for Pakistan to hunt for a missing document. To add to the bizarreness of that order, her father’s life and the prospect of a future together depended on her successful retrieval of that document!

Mehrunisa saw the perspiration beads on her forehead and felt them on her back. A cold sweat. She knew what would follow with urgency. Abruptly she doubled over the basin and threw up. A liquidised version of her breakfast flew out and spattered the white ceramic. She retched several times until the trickle stopped. She ran the tap, stood up and drew air in, panting like she had been in a marathon. The exertion left her weak. Mehrunisa rinsed her mouth thoroughly, gargling to draw out the bitter aftertaste. She washed her face, splashing water hard several times, then reached for the hand towel. It was not clean enough and she let it hang, instead patting her face dry with her hands.

A knock on the door.

Raghav was waiting outside. Raghav, her friend, who was acting like a puppet in the hands of Mishra. Surreal. But no, there was no need to doubt the reality of her situation: it was all real, and she was in the middle of it. She had to go. The portly Buddha was a spy in a hurry. He had promised her a half hour with her father before the mission began – Raghav was waiting to escort her.

Mehrunisa straightened, tucked her hair behind her ears, swallowed the lump down her throat, arranged the turquoise pashmina’s folds and studied her image in the mirror as she composed herself. Satisfied, she picked up her bag from the shelf where she had deposited it, swivelled on her loafers and headed for the door.

In silence Raghav and Mehrunisa walked down the tiled corridor, the sound of their footwear marking their progress. The corridor was a dead end and Raghav stopped in front of a room to the right. With his hand, he indicated the door. ‘You’ll want to be alone with your father. I’ll be right outside, in case you need anything.’

Mehrunisa rested her hand on the handle and shut her eyes briefly before pushing the door open.

The room was sparse, its stillness filled with the sound of a ticking grandfather clock mounted on the rear wall. A hospital bed stood in the centre and to the right was a massive table with a chair. The chair faced the door, and her, and seated on it was a man dressed in a grey suit. A white silk square sat smartly in the left breast pocket. Mehrunisa pushed down a tennis ball lodged in her throat. The man was visible chest upwards, his hands and legs hidden behind the chest of drawers that made up the bulk of the table sitting on short legs. A salt-and-pepper stubble covered the man’s jaw, a thick bandage wrapped around his head showed grey sideburns and grey hair. A similar peppering of grey hairs was visible from the open-neck shirt. Finally, Mehrunisa turned her scrutiny to the man’s eyes. They were intent on her.

Hesitantly Mehrunisa stepped forward, one hand on the Birkin, the other gripping the pashmina wool scarf around her neck. The man’s black eyes were fixed on her and as she drew close she saw his ridiculously long eyelashes and a thin film of water in his eyes.

‘You’re wearing Maadar’s pashmina.’

The voice was more gravelly than she recalled, either age or emotion had coated it. It was spoken conversationally but the statement was loaded with meaning. The turquoise pashmina shawl was her mother’s favourite, something she wore frequently. Wool gets softer with use, she said and Mehrunisa tended to agree. The shawl’s fabric was as soft as a baby’s skin and whenever Mehrunisa felt the need for the reassurance of her mother’s presence she donned her beloved turquoise stole. Earlier in the morning, as she had hurriedly packed, she had thrown it around her neck, perhaps with an eye on the Kashmiri winter. Or perhaps, her mind had foreseen something…

‘And I see you are sporting the Astaire.’

Mehrunisa lifted her chin to indicate the pocket square, a puff with a point on either side. That particular fold, called ‘Astaire’ after the stylish actor of legendary Hollywood musicals, was a fold her mother had favoured and, every morning, before her father departed for office nattily attired in one of his several suits, she’d tuck it into his jacket pocket before kissing him goodbye. The daily morning ritual flashed before her eyes as Mehrunisa blinked hard to focus her mind. A range of emotions was swamping her and if she did not control herself she would be a heap on the floor. The grip on the stole tightened as she regarded her father.

‘You look like her too,’ he said, his voice very hoarse.

Mehrunisa pursed her mouth and nodded in acknowledgement, not trusting herself to speak. There was a flood of words inside her. But there was also a dam she had assiduously built over the years, storing the hurt, the unshed tears, the recriminations, the love... If she let it go, what would happen to her? The clock struck the hour. A shiver ran down Mehrunisa’s spine. This was not the time – there
was
no time. The clock was already ticking, drawing down on the timeline of ninety-six hours.

She twisted her mouth, biting off the angst, and said in a shaky voice, ‘You are older.’

‘It’s been too long, Mehr.’

At the sound of that nickname, Mehrunisa looked away, trying to restrain the tears that threatened to spill. No, now was not the time. But inshallah, if things worked out, there would be time.
There would be time. Hazaar afsaneh.
An image came to her mind: Maadar reading to her from
The Thousand Stories
, where Scheherazade had to daily procure a fresh lease of life by recounting a new tale to the king every night. Her situation was not unlike that of Scheherazade – Papa was here and she would have to use all her resources to ensure that lifeline didn’t snap again.
There would be time. She would procure that time.
She returned her father’s gaze, exhaled loudly and on a sniffle said, ‘Time is of essence. Tell me what I need to know.’

Something crossed Harry’s eyes, a mix of surprise and hurt and love, as if he could not trust his ears. In a quiet voice he said, ‘Listen Mehr, don’t do this. Just refuse to cooperate. There is nothing Jag Mishra or anyone can do to force you.’

Mehrunisa answered his anguished plea with a steady gaze. ‘I have less than ninety-six hours. Tell me what I need to know.’

‘Walk away Mehrunisa,’ he said, using her full name, a habit from the past when he would do so while disciplining her or making a point. ‘Just walk away, this does not concern you.’

‘Really? You know my options, and they are limited.’

He opened his mouth as if to speak, hesitated, then bowed his head. From under his breath came, ‘Forgive me.’ He took a minute to compose himself before looking up.

‘Contrary to what Mishra thinks, I don’t have much to go on. Aziz Mirza is the man who was the Pakistan President’s aide. He has apparently gone into hiding after the President was killed. Go to his house in Lahore. Speak to his wife, Begum Ameena Aziz. Tell her I sent you and that you are my daughter. Ask her about Aziz’s whereabouts, if she has any knowledge of the Kohinoor. Then call me. Mishra will provide you with a secure phone – use it to stay in touch. It’ll be your lifeline, don’t lose it,’ he urged her with his eyes, his mouth set in a grim line before he dipped his head again.

The sight of her father’s downcast head propelled Mehrunisa forward. She extended her hand and looked at him. He made no attempt to clasp it. Surprised, she moved around the table to stand next to him. As she looked down at his lap she understood why he had not lifted his arm. His wrists were shackled to the chair and his ankles were manacled to the chair’s legs.

A cold dread filled Mehrunisa. Jag Mishra could not have headlined with more clarity the stark danger inherent in the situation she and her father were in.

As Mehrunisa set her jaw and looked up, her father nodded for her to step closer. She lowered her head until she was close enough to hear him whisper. ‘When you meet Begum Ameena, tell her Zamzama. Zam-zama,’ he repeated with urgency. ‘Don’t forget.’

As Mehrunisa nodded, he hissed, ‘Intelligence is built on deception. Trust
nothing
. Not even the mirror.’