Free THE HUNT FOR KOHINOOR BOOK 2 OF THE THRILLER SERIES FEATURING MEHRUNISA by Manreet Sodhi Someshwar

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