THE HUNT FOR KOHINOOR BOOK 2 OF THE THRILLER SERIES FEATURING MEHRUNISA (21 page)

Sheesh Mahal, Lahore, Pakistan

Tuesday 7:45 p.m.

Mehrunisa and Singh stood facing each other, both
immobilized. Singh could feel the gun at his back, despite the thick jacket, where Sgt. Argento had positioned it. He suspected Mehrunisa was similarly impaled by Saby. He saw Saby deftly collect Mehrunisa’s gun from around her waist and pocket it. R.P. Singh was furious with himself. He should have listened to that voice inside, the voice that urged caution. Now he stood impotent, trying to figure a way out.

‘I would not advise bravado, JCP Singh,’ Sgt. Argento said.

‘Special,’ Singh drawled. ‘You missed a memo, sergeant. I was promoted to Special Commissioner of Police for,’ he locked eyes with Mehrunisa, ‘special services rendered to the nation.’ Saby had encircled Mehrunisa at the waist with his left arm while the right held a pistol, the muzzle of which was resting on her neck.

Sgt. Argento responded with a jab of the pistol in Singh’s back. Then he said to Mehrunisa, ‘I know the Kohinoor is with you. Hold your right hand up. With the left, take the Kohinoor out of your bag.’

R.P. Singh watched her follow the instructions slowly. That was good. As long as she did not panic, they might have a chance. Mehrunisa had demonstrated steady nerves during the attack on the Taj Mahal – he was counting on that same rationality now.

When the folded paper was aloft in the space between them, Sgt. Argento said. ‘Good. Saby will now take it from you. Don’t try anything foolish. One move from you and your boyfriend will be bleeding to death before you can take a step.’

R.P. Singh’s jaw was set as he watched the scene, outwardly calm, his mind furiously paddling duck-like. Saby’s left arm unfurled from Mehrunisa’s waist, grabbed the Kohinoor, pocketed it in his left trouser pocket, before returning to brace her.

‘So far so good. Now, we don’t have much use for the JCP–’

Singh felt the muzzle slacken before the sergeant slumped on him like a concrete block. In front of him he saw Mehrunisa’s eyes widen with shock, as Saby leaned forward in confusion.

As Singh swivelled and Sgt. Argento slumped to the ground with a heavy thud, he shouted at Mehrunisa, ‘DIVE DOWN-dive down-down-down!’

In his confusion Saby had let go of Mehrunisa, even the pistol lax in his right hand as he gaped open-mouthed at the crumpled soldier. Mehrunisa copied R.P. Singh who was crouching on the ground, his eyes searching the darkness beyond the circumference of the lamplight. Just as well.

The next instant Saby jerked backwards, his foot lifted off the ground, and he toppled over. A red hole was expanding on his blue sweater, located on the spot above his heart.

Sheesh Mahal, Lahore, Pakistan

Tuesday 7:54 p.m.

Singh slid furiously to Mehrunisa, grabbed her
around
the shoulders and, crouching low, quickly shepherded her to the wall they had rounded minutes earlier. Once behind its thick brick cover, in the diffused light of the lamppost, he held an index finger vertical to his lips. Then, with the barest movement of his head, he peered beyond the edge of the wall. All lay quiet.

Two men shot dead within seconds. The shots were clean, precise, aimed to kill instantly. Who was this sharpshooter? To which camp did he belong? In Singh’s mind swam the man he had tackled earlier in the day at the shrine. Had he caught up with them?

He felt Mehrunisa’s hand on his back and slid back.

‘The Kohinoor,’ she whispered, ‘in Saby’s pocket.’

Sure enough! If the man wanted the Kohinoor, he’d have to approach Saby and reveal himself. Or he would wait for Mehrunisa and R.P. Singh to attempt an escape – surely he was aware of the ticking timeline…

‘Aye!’ A voice sounded, followed by the tapping of a thick stick on the ground. ‘What’s going on? Who’s lurking there? It is past closing time.’

From the corner of his eye Singh saw a security guard approach. Dressed in khaki with a wooden staff, he seemed oblivious to the drama that was unfolding. Unlike the other guards, he had escaped both Argento and the sharpshooter. Was he the guard they had circumvented earlier on the elephant steps, who had taken charge at shift-change? He must have completed his round and was now heading back. Was there a way to warn him without alerting the sharpshooter?

Mehrunisa and Singh watched as he walked towards them, urging them with his chin, swinging his staff haughtily. Singh knew one way to catch the man’s attention. As he neared, the man’s eyes widened at the sight of the gun in Singh’s hand. He let out an expletive and swivelled on his feet. However, his attempt at getaway was cut short when R.P. Singh grabbed his collar and pulled him back to the safety of the wall. ‘Shhh!’ he commanded. The man nodded. Only his staff made a sound as it rattled on the brick floor.

Once again Singh peered from behind the wall. Except for the night cricket the fort lay quiet. Where the hell was the sharpshooter?

He got his answer. A muzzle was warm against the back of his bald head. From the corner of his eye he saw that the guard, his left arm over Mehrunisa’s shoulder, had clamped a hand over her mouth. ‘Move!’ he commanded.

Singh walked slowly, cursing his twice-poor judgement, registering the slight American accent of his attacker, and noticing his grip on Mehrunisa’s neck as he followed Singh closely with her in tow. This man was clever and chameleon like. Dressed as a guard, he looked local yet spoke like an American. He had the bearing of a trained security man, not some jihadi recruit. And he had executed two men cleanly, in the dark, kept himself concealed even as he closed the distance… A cold clutched his heart and transported R.P. Singh to the chilly wilderness of Badakhshan.

While training the Afghan police he had heard one story repeatedly. With echoes of a Hollywood film, it sounded too fantastical to be true. And yet, the existence of the man was confirmed to him by several senior Afghan officers. A highly-trained and very skilled Pashtun sniper was picking off American troops at will, having stalked the 1
st
Battalion, 7
th
Marines for months in which he had killed over a hundred men. The Americans were hunting the sniper who was stalking them across the streets of Sangin, widely regarded as the most dangerous city in Afghanistan. But that was not all: the Taliban killer was trained not in Iran or by Al Qaeda operatives; he was a US soldier who had gone AWOL.

His agenda was to drive out the invaders, abolish the Poppy Pashas and establish a new Islamic Afghan society. Apparently he had the blessings of Mullah Omar, which ensured that neither the Pakistani Taliban nor the ISI touched him. And in his jihad for a new society he had begun laying out extreme punishments. For women he’d devised a singular one that raised the hair on the backs of even hardened men: burying them alive after first stuffing their mouths with soil.

The renegade sniper of the US army who had grown into the legend of the dreaded Pathan Babur Khan was a man well versed in camouflage. R.P. Singh felt his brain freeze, as if the exposure to Wakhan chill had set off a delayed shock.

It called for swift, decisive action.
Now
.

In a furious flash Singh swung his left arm backwards, aiming the elbow for Babur’s heart and in a continued fluid motion he doubled over. A swift firing followed. Babur had let off a shot just as the elbow connected with his chest. Mehrunisa stumbled to one side. As Babur gasped in pain, Singh landed a punch on his jaw and he keeled over. A quick blow on Babur’s right hand and the gun clattered to the floor. Singh pushed it away with his foot. Babur lunged at his midriff. The force sent them to the floor, clutching each other like Sumo wrestlers.

Mehrunisa rubbed her neck and watched the furious pummelling. The pistol lay
just inside the whirling arc of the two men. She needed one clear moment and she’d grab it.

The men were rolling on the brick floor, throwing punches. In an instant Singh had gained the upper hand as he found himself astride Babur who was pinned down. With his left hand he gripped his throat hard, and with his right attempted to pull his gun out. Babur’s hands were clawing at Singh’s hand as he wriggled desperately beneath him.

Mehrunisa saw a chance and moved in to grab the pistol from the mud floor. She had it in her hands when her left ankle was ensnared. She looked down and saw the guard had clamped his left claw around her ankle even as he struggled to stave off Singh with his right. The next instant she felt a yank and was toppling.

She landed on the two men. What followed was a blur. Singh, concerned for her safety, attempted to move her out of harm’s way. A shot rang out. Babur Khan had extricated the pistol from Mehrunisa’s hand and fired. He sat upright, the pistol levelled at Singh and Mehrunisa on the floor.

With a brief nod he indicated that Singh step away. He lunged at Mehrunisa, grabbed her by the neck and using her as a shield rose up. ‘Enough of monkeying around. Put your weapon on the floor, slowly, and slide it towards me. One moment of hesitation from your side and I shoot this woman.’

Singh did as he was instructed. Babur would not shoot Mehrunisa, otherwise he would have done it by now. It was him he wanted out of the way. So what was his game plan?

As his weapon clattered towards him over the tiled floor, Babur Khan captured it under his right foot. ‘Put your hands up where I can see them.’

Then he took a clear aim at R.P. Singh who was on the floor on his knees, his chest exposed. ‘
He is not a Pathan who does not return a blow for a pinch
.’

As the bullet hit R.P. Singh, he saw a shocked Mehrunisa thrashing and screaming in Babur Khan’s grip. The fact that Babur wasn’t doing anything to her meant one thing: he wanted her alive. The thought registered in his blurring mind as he toppled over in a hail of gunfire.

Bhakra Nangal Dam, India

Tuesday 10:46 p.m.

It was a curious mix of circumstance, family hierarchy
and native city that had made Abu Ansari what he was: an entirely ordinary man who was nonetheless the holder of multiple passports and several aliases. Of average height and build, wheatish complexioned, black haired, he was the quintessential ‘common man’ of the subcontinent who could meld into the crowd anywhere from Dhaka to Karachi and all the land between. His wide protuberant eyes gave him a perennially perplexed look, which again cast him as a bit of a yokel not worth bothering with. Yet Abu had parlayed this very ordinariness into a skill, that of the human chameleon. Just as the lizard morphed into its particular background by changing colour, Abu became a Yemeni Arab, an Iraqi Sunni, an Isfahani, a Kabuli, Lahauri or Dilliwala through his uncommon facility for languages and his common looks. The provenance of a brown man such as him could be located anywhere in the Islamic landmass to which was tethered his peninsular homeland of India.

Growing up as one of the seven children in a lower middle-class Muslim family in Hyderabad, Abu – he of no impressive size or intellect – had figured that the way to survive was to blend in, to be one of a multitude, where benefits accrue because of membership.

In school Abu was never called upon by the teacher to answer a question – he was neither bright nor dim-witted enough. Playground bullies seldom picked on him – he made sure to stand beside their jeering cohort. Despite meagre household resources Abu never went hungry – his mother didn’t notice when he slunk in to steal food or his father when he pilfered his pant pocket for small change. So ordinary, so commonplace, that he could place a bomb in Mumbai’s Zaveri Bazaar at peak time and have nobody notice or pay any attention. Do people notice lampposts?

Abu’s house was in the Old City where his neighbours comprised Yemeni Arabs, Armenians, Pathans, Turks and Persians who had settled in Hyderabad generations back. A melting pot spewing multiple languages in its fetid air heavy with incense, riots and resentment. Abu never made a conscious effort to learn any language besides what he was taught at school – Telugu and English – but by the age of fifteen he was fluent in multiple languages that could be heard in the city. Such was the osmosis that not only could Abu speak Arabic he could enunciate like a Yemeni or a Saudi or a Kabuli.

Abu never held this facility in any particular regard. That is, until he landed a job in the port city of Jeddah, the gateway to holy Mecca. There he met the fiery preacher who was to change his life forever and set him on the path to sharia.

His first step was to begin recruiting jihadis in Saudi Arabia from amongst immigrants. The youths who arrived from Kerala and Andhra Pradesh to work at Jeddah Port responded to him. Arid Jeddah disoriented them with its searing days and cool nights and Abu Ansari catered to them in his dulcet Urdu and soft Malayalam as he tutored their tongues in guttural Arabic. They found solace in listening to somebody from back home who understood their twin anxieties about their prospects in the land of Hindus and uncertainty in the holy yet foreign land. Abu sympathized with them, weaved in stories of Muslims butchered in Kashmir and Gujarat and Mumbai, and pointed out how Islam was under attack everywhere. But there was a salve for a festering soul and Abu offered it – jihad.

Then he got a call to return to Hindustan to serve Kohinoor. The mission energized Abu: in Arabic, ‘sharia’ was the path to water and if they pulled off Kohinoor there would be enough water to cleanse many festering wounds! Positioning him in the heart of the operation had been easy – in this land one could buy anything! Greasing appropriate palms had resulted in Abu’s transfer from Solan city to Bhakra Dam and here was Abu Ansari, his INSAS rifle slung over one shoulder as he walked the curved rampart of the high-security dam.

How did Abu Ansari get to don the uniform of the state police of Himachal Pradesh? Where did he get his papers from? What was the security check undertaken before assigning him to the security detail at Bhakra?

Abu Ansari strolled languidly glancing at the dark waters of the reservoir below him, tourist boats hauled up on the bank in the distance. The organization he worked for had provided him with multiple passports that he used at various points in time to travel across continents. Faking a police employment record and ID had been the least of his worries. This name badge, he glanced at the right pocket of his stiff khaki uniform – Kishen Sharma – was nondescript and entirely common as befitted the man who wore it – sallow, medium-built, with a medium-thick moustache. The mauli on his wrist proclaimed his belief in the infidel practices of the land and signalled him as a pious Hindu who swore by sacred threads.

In six months on the job, Abu Ansari had learnt many things, taken several opportunities to linger and explore and record. Thanks to him Kohinoor was on track – the day of qayamat was approaching and the infidels had no idea.