Read Online THE HUNT FOR KOHINOOR BOOK 2 OF THE THRILLER SERIES FEATURING MEHRUNISA by Manreet Sodhi Someshwar - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Manreet Sodhi Someshwar
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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
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
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