Read Online THE HUNT FOR KOHINOOR BOOK 2 OF THE THRILLER SERIES FEATURING MEHRUNISA by Manreet Sodhi Someshwar - Free Book Online
Authors: Manreet Sodhi Someshwar
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after the last terror attack has ensured that we answer the next with full-scale war. Are you ready to take responsibility for that war, Mehrunisa?’
She turned to glare at Mishra. ‘Clever. Emotional blackmail now.’ She flung her right hand upwards. ‘Don’t you see? I am an art conservator and historian. I preserve artwork. My expertise relates to a time period that is four hundred years back. There is no skill I can offer that can solve your problem.’
Jag Mishra’s mellow eyes had an intensity that was simultaneously at odds with him and yet congruent. Mehrunisa found herself in its crosshairs. ‘The most important aspect of any conservation is prevention, right? And that isn’t glamorous work. The attributes it requires are perseverance, patience, doggedness, attention to detail. You fit the bill Mehrunisa, you do.’
‘There’s one quality you forgot: passion. A conservator needs passion for her work. Why should I be passionate about your task?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. Passion will come, once you learn all the facts. First, by beginning to understand that you are here and there is no turning back. You are already in this Mehrunisa. Your father is in this city, in this very building, a few rooms away and you have the chance to meet him after years. In addition, you have the chance to take over from where he has left off and ensure that the next attack is thwarted.’
‘And how will I do that?’
‘Your father will lead you – and desire for his safety will motivate you. And Raghav will be there all through to ensure your safety. I can’t entrust this operation to anyone else.’
Abruptly Mehrunisa laughed. ‘But of course.’ She shook her head. ‘I was being dense but now I see your game plan.’ She walked towards Mishra’s desk and leaned forward, supporting her weight on both hands splayed on the desk. ‘We, my father and I, are both expendable, aren’t we? One doesn’t exist to the outside world and the other can be collateral damage.’
Mishra returned her gaze evenly. ‘Put bluntly, yes.’
‘Have you considered the fact that I don’t even know how to use a gun?’
‘You won’t need a gun Mehrunisa, that’s not your strength. You will need this.’ Mishra bent down and picked up a plastic bag. From within he withdrew a black burqa. ‘What the mullahs forget is that when a woman wears a burqa, it hides her looks, not her brain.’
As she eyed it hesitantly, he added, ‘You’ll need to practise walking in it though.’
‘And what prevents me from walking out of here and disappearing?’
Jag Mishra gave a tolerant smile. ‘I am an intelligence man, Mehrunisa. When I am not tracking the jihadi militants in Pakistan I am spying on my own mother. The way I see it, you don’t have much of a choice. It’s the document or your father.’
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
She turned to glare at Mishra. ‘Clever. Emotional blackmail now.’ She flung her right hand upwards. ‘Don’t you see? I am an art conservator and historian. I preserve artwork. My expertise relates to a time period that is four hundred years back. There is no skill I can offer that can solve your problem.’
Jag Mishra’s mellow eyes had an intensity that was simultaneously at odds with him and yet congruent. Mehrunisa found herself in its crosshairs. ‘The most important aspect of any conservation is prevention, right? And that isn’t glamorous work. The attributes it requires are perseverance, patience, doggedness, attention to detail. You fit the bill Mehrunisa, you do.’
‘There’s one quality you forgot: passion. A conservator needs passion for her work. Why should I be passionate about your task?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. Passion will come, once you learn all the facts. First, by beginning to understand that you are here and there is no turning back. You are already in this Mehrunisa. Your father is in this city, in this very building, a few rooms away and you have the chance to meet him after years. In addition, you have the chance to take over from where he has left off and ensure that the next attack is thwarted.’
‘And how will I do that?’
‘Your father will lead you – and desire for his safety will motivate you. And Raghav will be there all through to ensure your safety. I can’t entrust this operation to anyone else.’
Abruptly Mehrunisa laughed. ‘But of course.’ She shook her head. ‘I was being dense but now I see your game plan.’ She walked towards Mishra’s desk and leaned forward, supporting her weight on both hands splayed on the desk. ‘We, my father and I, are both expendable, aren’t we? One doesn’t exist to the outside world and the other can be collateral damage.’
Mishra returned her gaze evenly. ‘Put bluntly, yes.’
‘Have you considered the fact that I don’t even know how to use a gun?’
‘You won’t need a gun Mehrunisa, that’s not your strength. You will need this.’ Mishra bent down and picked up a plastic bag. From within he withdrew a black burqa. ‘What the mullahs forget is that when a woman wears a burqa, it hides her looks, not her brain.’
As she eyed it hesitantly, he added, ‘You’ll need to practise walking in it though.’
‘And what prevents me from walking out of here and disappearing?’
Jag Mishra gave a tolerant smile. ‘I am an intelligence man, Mehrunisa. When I am not tracking the jihadi militants in Pakistan I am spying on my own mother. The way I see it, you don’t have much of a choice. It’s the document or your father.’
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
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